Mass Effect: Contention
by 95Headhunter
Summary: It's a new tour for Commander David Anderson, as he finds himself tasked with the protection of a diplomatic meeting that could change the face of galactic politics. But this is the Attican Traverse, where nothing goes to plan...
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

**Trent Shipyard, Terra Nova, Asgard System, Exodus Cluster**

**2172**

Through the large, oval shaped window, one had to admit the curving contours of the SSV _El Alamein_ were striking, particularly bathed as they were in the soft glow of the dock lights. Staff Commander David Anderson was certainly of that opinion, and the few moments he had taken to pause by the overlooking viewport were, in his mind at least, worth the risk of being a little late for his appointment.

Assuring himself that the man responsible for the day's events would not begrudge Anderson's decision to stop and appreciate the view, he nevertheless decided to imbue a little haste into his stride and continue walking. Choosing to take the stairs rather than wait for the lift, Anderson stepped out from the stairwell into the spacious dock, bracing himself against the sudden chill. The sheer size of the dock made any attempt to heat it futile, and beyond the wide entrance portal, the winter of Terra Nova's sub-polar region was setting in; the pale sun visible just over the Trent mountains cast streaks of weak, yellow light as it set, and thick grey clouds were already moving to claim the sky it was leaving. It was to be a cold night.

Anderson strode briskly to the jet bridge, returning the salute of the young armoured marine standing guard at the entrance and passing through into the ship itself, his destination. Usually, on a frigate of this class, Anderson would have been met by a sealed decontamination chamber and its VI operated systems, but for today the ship was open and Anderson was greeted not by the disembodied voice of a computer program, but by a young officer in dress uniform.

"Commander Anderson?" The junior officer asked, his eyes lighting up.

"That's me." Anderson affirmed in his deep baritone.

"You're right on time, sir. I'm to take you to the mess."

"Lead the way." Anderson smiled. The officer led the way down a set of stairs aft of the bridge and into the crew's mess. Anderson was immediately greeted by a smattering of applause from the assembled crewmen, lined up along the back wall of the mess. Before them stood two men, one of whom Anderson recognised as the _El Alamein_'s captain Stefan Wagner, and to whom he snapped off a quick salute. As the captain returned the salute, the man to his left set down his glass on the table and walked over to Anderson.

"So this is my replacement," the man smiled, "It's a pleasure to meet you, son." That clarified the man as being Commander Thomas Portman, the current executive officer of the frigate, and the man whose retirement had left a position for Anderson to fill.

"Likewise, sir." Anderson gave a warm smile and clasped the older man's hand in a firm handshake.

"Shall we get on with this then, sir?" Portman turned back to Captain Wagner, with a knowing smile, "some of these younger officers look like they're itching for a damn drink and some shore leave."

Captain Wagner gave a gruff smile and looked across at Anderson.

"Commander, if you will?" He asked in a neutral voice, absent of even a trace of an accent. Anderson nodded, and stepped across to face the captain. He stood rigid at attention while the captain turned to the table and picked up a folded Systems Alliance flag. Anderson gave a slow salute, and Wagner handed him the flag with a stiff thrust of his arms, before delivering a drawn out salute himself. Anderson marched over to Commander Portman, who stood taller even than Anderson's rather large frame. The two men repeated the process, Portman struggling to contain a smile.

Anderson completed the salute, and Portman stood at attention for the final time. The lined officers broke into applause once again, and Captain Wagner strode up to his now former Executive Officer, shaking his hand.

"Congratulations Tom, I'm grateful for every moment of your service. I'm sure I'm not the only who'll tell you that you'll be sorely missed." Portman smiled again.

"I couldn't have asked for a better captain to serve under, skipper. It's been a pleasure." He responded. Anderson smiled to himself, despite the slight awkwardness he felt as a newcomer to this particular relationship. He knew that Portman had been XO of the _El Alamein_ for as long as Wagner had been captain; six years of partnership was bound to have fostered a close friendship. Anderson felt no remorse for being the one to replace to Portman, however; he had known far too many marines that had not lived to see retirement.

"Right then, that's that." Wagner said simply, a hint of a sigh behind the words. "Crew," he barked at the assembled crewmen, "you are dismissed from active duty." A smile came to his face as he added a final sentiment, "Bring out the contraband!"

As if a switch had been thrown, the mess erupted into noise as the crew struck up conversations and produced quantities of alcohol far too copious to have simply been hidden stash. Captain Wagner chose that moment to introduce himself more informally to his new XO.

"David Anderson," he smiled, "I'm pleased to finally meet you; your file's been up on my terminal so much it may as well have been my screensaver. I have to confess, I'm looking forward to working with you; this ship has yet to benefit from having an N7 graduate on its crew."

Anderson gave his best attempt at a modest smile. The N7 label awarded him signified the highest level of proficiency in the System Alliance Marine Corps' Special Forces branch, a simple badge that marked him clearly as a graduate of an elite program. A sign of competence it may have been, but N7 soldiers were all too often treated as supermen by inexperienced commanders; portrayed as a team of invincible warriors able to solve any problem that may be thrown their way.

For his part, Anderson took the recognition in his stride. He would have been lying were he to deny that he enjoyed the respect shown him, but he also made a conscious effort not to slip into the arrogance that afflicted some of his fellow N7 graduates. He had seen the evidence that pride came before a fall, and none of those falls had been easy to watch.

"Thank you, sir." Anderson replied, "I'm looking forward to serving on the _El Alamein_. Wolf pack duty left me with all too few opportunities to ground pound; being back on a patrol frigate is going to be far more up my street." Wagner gave a mirthless chuckle, a remarkably odd sound from his stern face.

"It's not going to be an easy tour, Commander. I haven't had time to brief the crew yet, but we're bound for the far side of the Traverse."

"The far side meaning the batarians' side?" Anderson asked, concerned. The captain nodded gravely.

"Exactly. The official orders are pirate patrol and suppression. Read: counter-terrorism." Anderson grimaced; he was no stranger to combat on the fringes of Alliance space, but few of those memories were particularly happy ones. In recent years, the competitive rivalry that had sprung up between humanity and the batarian race had reached a dramatic peak. It was only a year ago that the batarian ambassador had stormed from the Citadel Tower declaring his people's secession, a move that had been prompted directly by human colonization efforts in the Skyllian Verge. And only another year before that had seen the rivalry nearly descend into all out conflict, after a brutal batarian slaver raid on the Alliance colony of Mindoir.

Anderson himself had been part of a frigate flotilla that was only hours from striking a batarian colony when the Council finally brokered a resolution to that particular flare up. Anderson had heard one could count the survivors from the raid on one's hands. To say that relations between the two races were tense was an understatement, even speaking optimistically. And nowhere was this clearer than on the borders of the Verge.

"Let's not dampen the mood, though." Wagner smiled again. "I think it would be best if you met the crew, particularly the marines who'll be under your command. Welcome to the _El Alamein_, Commander. Enjoy yourself while you can. We ship out in thirty six hours."

*****

By the time the _El Alamein_ finally cleared the hangar and fired up its engines for a swift burn into space, amid the failing light of a late, wintry afternoon, Anderson was feeling fully human once more. The throbbing headache he had awoken with had served as a stiff reminder that he was not getting any younger, and with his advancing years came a drastically reduced capacity for alcohol. The hours before he had been called for duty had given him sufficient time to reflect on his decision, however, and he found that he did not regret his decision to make an attempt at getting to know the soldiers newly charged to him, despite the price he had paid that morning.

As marine detail commander, there had been little for him to do with regards to prepping the ship, other than a brief stint as a flashlight holder down in the engineering section while a control cable package for the drive core was replaced. Instead, Anderson had used the time to familiarise himself with the bridge. As the _El Alamein_ tore past the strip mined surface of the planet Tyr on its way out of the system, Anderson finally allowed himself to take a seat in the centrally positioned Combat Information Centre. Looking up at the large holographically projected galaxy map that dominated the CIC, Anderson adjusted a loosened strap on his belt.

The Executive Officer of a frigate was an odd position in that uniform requirements were somewhat more relaxed than other officers. Given that his theoretical role was to be combat ready at a moment's notice, Anderson was permitted to perform his duties in fatigues rather than the full uniform worn by the captain or other bridge officers. At first, it had been odd having officers more junior than him looking smarter, but Anderson had rapidly adapted.

The fatigues were simple, a slim fitting blue t-shirt with faux camouflage print along the flanks, a pair of combat trousers in the same blue camo print, black combat boots and a black equipment harness around the waist and thighs. Both comfortable and practical, Anderson found them far more accommodating than the more rigid service coat and creased trousers worn by the other officers.

Of course, in a service born from an amalgamation of several varying nation state militaries, correct protocol was mired in a long list of regulations. In an effort to simplify things, the addition of a clause that put uniform at the discretion of the senior officer had been implemented. In reality, however, that often meant one did not know what uniform they should be wearing until they were told off by a superior for wearing the wrong one. Whether it was his N7 status or something in his attitude, Anderson was not sure, but he had yet to be reprimanded for his choice of fatigues.

"Anderson," Captain Wagner called from a slightly raised platform amid the consoles that encircled the galaxy map, "I need an ETA on hitting the mass relay."

"Aye, sir." Anderson replied, standing as he did so. He smiled to himself, he had fully expected to receive an order as soon as he sat down. As he made his way forward to the flight station, he passed Wagner resuming what looked like an intense discussion with the ship's navigator.

Lieutenant Lev Horowitz sat amid the heavy bank of control consoles and data readouts that formed the flight station. Where in a combat situation, the two seats that flanked his bulky, cushioned pilot's chair might be occupied by two junior support officers; in the basic 'milk run' flight they were performing now, they were free for Anderson's use. Sinking heavily into the rightmost chair, he took a moment to take in the fleeting glimpse of space the narrow viewport running along the side of the cockpit offered, before turning to the helmsman.

"Captain's asking for an ETA on the relay."

"Already?" Horowitz snorted, "The captain likes to be kept informed, but this is ridiculous even by his standards." The pilot keyed a few commands into a small blue lit terminal to his left. "I mean we haven't even cleared the Termination Shock yet." He added, referring to the point in space at which particles thrown out by the star's solar wind began to slow, essentially marking the boundary of a star system. "Well, tell him we're about four hours out, if I keep a steady burn."

"Got it," Anderson nodded and stood once again, leaving the pilot to his flying. Fleetingly, the commander wondered how seriously he should take Horowitz's remark. Captain Wagner had thrown himself whole-heartedly into the pre-flight preparations, but Anderson had assumed that was normal. Between Horowitz citing the simple demand as somewhat premature, and the notably heated debate between Wagner and the navigation officer that Anderson had heard earlier, perhaps there was something else afoot. Could Wagner have a more personal stake in the _El Alamein_'s mandate? Or was there something Anderson was yet to be told? As he delivered the requested information, Anderson wondered if maybe the captain was just eager to return to the action, and to test out his new XO. Not for the first time, the commander felt his latest tour had the potential to be an interesting one.

*****

Ambassador Sang Gil-soo hurried across the gleaming white promenade that ran between the embassy buildings and the verdant parkland that occupied much of the Presidium. The political heart of the galactic capital was a marvel to behold, a pristine ecosystem artificially managed to near perfection surrounding a freshwater lake that ran through the centre of the Presidium ring. The artificial blue sky that hung above on the inside of the ring was nigh on impossible to distinguish from the real thing, as was the faint breeze that filtered throughout the level.

The Ward Arms that made up the majority of the massive Citadel space station may have resembled a dense city more than a deep space installation, but at least one could comprehend them as a physical construction. To Ambassador Sang's human eyes, the natural environment that had been created on the Citadel's central Presidium ring seemed a work beyond that of mortal hands, so convincing was the image it portrayed. But like so many other days before, and in the footsteps of countless diplomats, Ambassador Sang found that once again, he had too little time to stop and admire the masterpiece.

The Korean emigrant had not inherited an easy job; not that anyone had ever pretended it would be. As humanity's most senior liaison with the Citadel Council, the governing body that held ultimate responsibility for galactic law and policy, Ambassador Sang had the unenviable duty of representing the multitude desires of humans as a species on the galactic political stage. While this was a difficult task alone, the current ambassador for the Systems Alliance had ascended to his position at perhaps the worst possible time.

During his tenure, relations between humanity and the batarian race had swiftly declined. After a mere two decades of membership of Council space, humanity had managed to drive another species to what seemed to be the brink of all out conflict. Ambassador Sang knew that the blame could not rest solely with humanity, and he knew that the tension had started long before he became Ambassador, but the devastating raid by batarian slavers on the human colony of Mindoir, the subsequent backlash and the batarian secession from Council space had all occurred during his time in office.

Indeed, it was partly due to these perceived failings that Ambassador Sang now found himself with urgency in his steps and a rare smile on his face. Where diplomacy on his part had fallen short in the past, he had now been given a chance to make amends. Racing past the embassy receptionist, Sang practically flew into his office and fell heavily into his padded chair.

"Joanne? Can you forward the message please?" he asked immediately into his intercom. Efficient as ever, Sang's Aide Joanne Blake forwarded the video message through to Sang's terminal within seconds of the request.

By the time the message finished, the smile on Ambassador Sang's face was all the more pronounced. At last, perhaps he could herald in a resolution to this petty conflict. But he was a cautious man; he had not earned his position through impetuousness. He would have to proceed with care, but that merely accentuated the fact that he now had little time to waste.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

**Treyarmus, Cacus System, Hades Gamma Cluster**

After two weeks of patrol, Commander Anderson was struggling to maintain the same focus he had committed to his duties when the _El Alamein_ left port. As much as Anderson enjoyed his position, the small frigate was overstaffed for its current role; namely doing nothing.

The commander had served on patrol frigates in the past, and he was familiar with the boredom that could come during quiet periods. But having grown accustomed to being onboard cruisers attached to larger fleets where exercises and drills were common, the tedium of patrol duty had become a slumbering memory, and one Anderson now had some regrets about awakening. So far, their patrol had turned up nothing. Not a single pirate sighting or raid report, and Anderson had been unable to take his marines groundside yet, even on exercise. He was itching to try out the new IFV the _El Alamein_ had been gifted with, but they had yet to even pass by a planet with a firm enough surface to land on. The only worlds they had seen had been similar to the one they were currently orbiting: gas giants with a strong enough magnetic field to discharge the static built up by the drive core into.

With little to occupy him, Anderson was glad it was lunchtime. He was sitting across from the ship's doctor, Linda Rosberg. She was a reasonably attractive looking woman, but it was her repertoire of anecdotes and tales of missions out on the fringes of settled space that made her an appealing individual to eat with, along with her ease in telling them.

"So, anyway, by the time we got him back to the ship, he'd already regained consciousness. Ha, he started screaming his head off the second he saw the gaping hole in his abdomen." Rosberg laughed as Anderson tore off a large chunk of bread and relocated it to a willing mouth. "It was only once we'd got him strapped to the gurney that I realised I'd never worked on a salarian before."

"I thought Alliance doctors had to take courses in alien biology?" Anderson queried.

"Well, yeah," Rosberg shrugged, "but a six month crash course on half a dozen separate species doesn't really count for the same as five years of human med school. I'd seen enough diagrams to have a rough idea where everything went, but no one ever warned me about the salarian metabolism."

"What do you mean?"

"Well we only had human tranqs on board, I didn't want to give him too many at once for fear of giving him a heart attack, but even with half his spleen hanging out, the poor bastard just kept passing those drugs through his system far quicker than any human. He woke up three times during the operation. I nearly had a heart attack myself the first time. The marine I'd roped in to doping him back up again almost broke his arm trying to fight Aureos' thrashing. I learned a valuable lesson that day: never underestimate a wounded, frantic salarian's strength." The doctor chuckled again, and Anderson found his face splitting into a smile. "Nothing compared to what I've seen wounded krogan do, of course." Her mouth creased in a knowing smile.

"I've seen that first hand," Anderson said darkly, his mind flashing back to a dingy element zero refinery on the batarian world of Camala, feeling the resurgence of the fear he had felt as a giant scaly claw gripped his neck, forcing the breath from him even as the great reptile's own torso had oozed orange blood in torrents.

"Frightening, isn't it?" Rosberg enthused, her eyes wide. "I was convinced he was dead, was about to pronounce him and everything. I'm just glad he was on our side, I'd probably be dead if it wasn't for…" The doctor found herself cut off, as the disembodied voice of Captain Wagner sounded through the mess' intercom speakers.

"This is the captain speaking. Commander Anderson, please report to the briefing room at once."

"A story for another time then," Rosberg shrugged as Anderson downed what remained of his water and stood up.

"I'll hold you to that." He said with a smile as he made his way to the stairs leading to the bridge. Cantering up the steps with a pace he had not used since first breaking free of Terra Nova, Anderson wondered what could have happened that would require a formal briefing. As a surprisingly popular planet for drive discharge, he knew that there was an extranet comm buoy in close proximity, but to receive orders in such a remote part of the galaxy was an unlikely occurrence.

On entering the circular room, Anderson saw that the captain's face was as serious as ever, but there was a fire behind Wagner's eyes he had not seen before. Excitement, perhaps? Anderson's gaze shifted around the room. The only other crewmember present was Second Lieutenant Monica Perez, the _El Alamein_'s communications officer.

"Take a seat, commander." Wagner ordered in his ever level voice, though he himself continued to pace slowly across the breadth of the room. "We've just received a message from the brass on the Citadel. It seems our objectives have just been altered."

"Altered, sir?" Anderson asked. Whether it was deliberate or just his custom, Wagner's slow delivery was beginning to grate on Anderson, who valued plain speaking as a great virtue.

"This assignment comes right down from the top, right from the political end in fact." Wagner remained cool, but even Anderson's interest was now piqued. He had taken his orders from a politician once before, and could hardly say it had been a smooth operation. "The _El Alamein_ has been tasked by the Ambassador to the Council himself to take part in a diplomatic mission of great importance, as he describes it."

"The batarians, sir?" Anderson offered.

"Exactly," if Wagner was taken aback by Anderson's astute judgement, he did not show it, "given our original orders, we're one of the few Alliance ships currently close enough to batarian territory. And we're the only one with a marine presence the brass deems sufficient. We've been offered a chance to find a diplomatic resolution to the mess our species are currently in."

"A batarian diplomat named Barj Alta'Thah contacted the Alliance about two weeks ago," Perez continued, "he said he wanted to arrange a meeting with an Alliance official, to establish a dialogue between our peoples again. He claimed that a shift in the batarian government could see him afforded the power to make good on the negotiations, while Alliance ratification would gain him enough support with the growing number of liberals in batarian space to get elected." Perez spoke quickly, but her words were not rushed. A gifted communicator, Anderson judged, supposing that she would not have earned her position otherwise. "So far, everything he's said has seemed very promising. Everything from reparations for Mindoir, to co-operative colonisation and terraforming ventures in the Verge."

"Forgive me if I sound a little cynical, but this all seems a little bit too good to be true." Anderson said, a pronounced frown lining his face.

"Perhaps," Wagner shrugged, "but I can understand why the Ambassador wouldn't want to pass up this opportunity."

"Where do we come into this?"

"The batarian wants the meeting to be on neutral ground, but he fears hardliners in the military will sell him out." Perez answered, "He's already received threats from individuals he's labelled terrorists, and he's worried their influence stretches into the military. Probably rightly, there's not a lot of love for the Alliance in the batarian standing forces."

"So we're going to represent the Alliance's share of protection for the meeting." Wagner added, "We escort our diplomat to the rendezvous, then provide protection during the negotiations. Of course, the majority of the security lies with the meeting remaining hidden."

"A diplomat of any species is valuable property in the right – or rather wrong – hands," Anderson said warily, "this could be a simple trap."

"It could be," Wagner sighed, "that's part of the reason the Ambassador himself isn't going himself."

_Figures_, Anderson thought sourly. That was just how the big machine of politics worked, putting a man of less perceived importance in the face of danger while the man at the top took the credit for any success. _And the military differs, how?_ A faint voice at the back of Anderson's mind interjected.

"The brass thinks it's worth the risk." Wagner finalised. And that was that, Anderson realised. They had their orders, for better or worse, and they would do as they were bidden no matter what.

"So where are we meeting this diplomat, if I may ask sir?"

"We're staying put. He's coming to us."

*****

**Morpai, Vharin System, Benevas Kai Cluster**

Perrin Gral'Avah once again raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his ridged brow. Though listed as a temperate world, Gral'Avah knew this was only a product of misleading averages, the equatorial jungle was easily hotter than any region of his homeworld, and the vast savannahs that sandwiched it were barely any cooler. In fact, the batarian wondered if the lack of shade made the heat all the more intolerable.

What made it all worse was the irritating way his two companions seemed to be enjoying the heat. _Hairless morons_, he scoffed to himself, _ignorant peasants!_ They were both natives of the batarian homeworld, a far warmer world than the chilly colony on Serrenna where Gral'Avah's home nestled.

Morpai was a festering, overgrown hothouse in Perrin's eyes – a world of ill-educated farm workers and privateers of loose morals and looser loyalty. Worse, it was rank with infestation. In every corner of the lowly backwater's sparse collection of settlements, one could find alien immigrants. The mere existence of the colony offended Gral'Avah; it had been established to cater to the outsiders who presumed to dictate to the batarian people. A world of trade and free dialogue between aliens, and it disgusted Gral'Avah.

The town they had just left had been crowded with the bizarre mix of immigrants. Everything from the inane salarians that filled the streets with the sound of their babbling to the whorish asari that conned men and women alike out of pocket with their filthy whiles, and the dirt-laden quarians that peddled their refuse like the revolting beggars they were. But Gral'Avah could tolerate them; given the nature of his lifestyle he had to. He could not abide the humans that had come here, during their plague-like dissemination through the galaxy.

Gral'Avah hefted his baggage and spat on the ground, a culmination of the hatred that burned through him like a toxin. Hatred for the humans, hatred for the task he had been bidden to perform and hatred for this breeding ground of filth he was being forced to trek through. Behind him, one of his companions grunted, and a sharp pang of satisfaction buried itself in Perrin's conscience. The two peasants may have been more tolerable of the heat, but their lesser status allowed him to give them a far bigger share of the load.

"Keep moving," Gral'Avah hissed, "we're not far out now."

"I don't see why we couldn't have driven straight into town, feels like I'm lugging a pregnant varren." The leftmost batarian whined.

"Because I don't want the rover found, idiot!" Perrin growled, unconsciously flicking his head to the right in a gesture of contempt. "You know the sort that lingers around there. Imagine if one of the quarians saw it: it would have been stolen before we'd even got the gear." The batarian shifted his load to free a hand again, which he promptly ran through the thick hair on his face to quell the itch left by the sweat that trailed down his sculpted cheekbones.

Another five minutes of tiresome walking saw them arrive at the six wheeled vehicle that would take them the rest of the way. Above the six fat wheels the carriage squatted on, the chassis was skeletal; a criss-crossing of metal bars and mesh that housed five worn seats and an ugly black engine, all exposed. Between the forward seats and the engine at the rear was a cramped platform raised above the top of the seats. Affixed to the platform was a mounting point for a heavy machine gun, though the hardpoint was currently empty. Dumping their respective cargoes on a cradle above the engine, the three batarians wordlessly took their seats and Gral'Avah revved the engine.

Where a newcomer might have marvelled at the alien flora that jutted up here and there from the long yellow grass, Perrin found it endlessly dull. The rover pitched and bounced on the dry ground, and by the time it reached its eventual destination, Gral'Avah had added an aggravating stiffness to his ever expanding list of disagreements.

The forward base was a marvellous site, though it paled in comparison with the main facility they had established. A maze of partially buried wood and metal structures interlinked by winding underground passages and surface pathways, it housed a small barracks, a communications and sensor suite and a multitude of storage facilities. A small garage built partway into a rock formation provided cover and maintenance for the trio of ground vehicles afforded to the camp, and a large silo sunk into expensively dug ground provided the personnel with water.

Gral'Avah let a slight sigh of contentment escape his thin lips as he stepped from the uncomfortable ground transport. This was his domain, and he was home. Unfortunately, it seemed that business was immediately to interfere with his brief good mood. Waiting for him was a green skinned batarian that Perrin had taken an intense dislike to, all the worse for the man's exceptional abilities and infuriatingly passive demeanour.

"The _Drelha_ has been waiting for you, he wants to talk."

_Perfect!_ Gral'Avah griped inwardly, he had only just fulfilled his orders, now there were more to come.

"Fine!" He snapped, "Put him through in the comm tent, I'll head over now. You two!" He barked at two of the garage mechanics, "Help them unload the equipment. Storage tent one. Move!"

Despite his impending conversation with the commander, Gral'Avah's mood was lifting. A soft breeze had sprung up, combined with the onset of evening and the distance between the camp and the squalor of the town, the climate had become much more pleasant. As he made his way along the trampled path to the comm tent, Gral'Avah caught sight of a thick bank of dark grey cloud on the horizon, a black swirling mass that even the jaded batarian had to admit was striking in its terrible beauty.

The storm would require some precautionary measures, but nothing more strenuous than erecting a few waterproof coverings over the camouflage netting that currently adorned the rooftops of the camp's structures. For now, Gral'Avah was free to admire the visual manifestation of the storm's raw power from a distance, as it ate at the tranquillity of the pale blue sky.

Stepping down into the shady comm tent, the batarian took a seat amid the bustling of the communications crew and opposite a hologram projector. A nod of his head was the simple signal that he was ready, and almost immediately the orange tinted visage of a fellow batarian materialised before him. Immediately, Gral'Avah tilted his head to the left in a gesture of deference and was rewarded with a curt nod.

Though he would never concede the fact in words, Perrin's commander was a far more handsome man than he. His lower eyes were even and piercing, their slope eminently pronounced but graceful and smooth, while the upper orbs were large enough to demonstrate a cool intelligence, yet remained smaller than the lower set as a respectable batarian's should be. Thankfully, his skin was a rich mahogany – Gral'Avah was not sure he could have stomached taking orders from a greenskin, no matter how capable they were. The hair that adorned his forehead was combed up, a mark of wealth and status. Rare among batarians, hair also adorned his chin, adding to the imposing gravity his well sculpted face already provided.

"Our work against the traitors continues at great pace, _Haikr_." The commander said in his authoritative bass voice, designating Perrin by his subordinate rank. "My source tells me they are continuing with their plan of submission to the humans."

Gral'Avah hissed, but said nothing. The commander had heard his wrath vocalised before, and was not interested in a repeat performance.

"And does your source think it will make a difference? Does he think the Circle will let this traitor dictate our foreign policy?"

"Opinion in the Circle would seem to favour the so-called liberal movement," the _Drelha_ said bitterly, "for the moment, at least." He added, somewhat ponderously.

"Then we proceed?"

"Of course we proceed, Gral'Avah." The _Drelha _stated. "We cannot allow a man of his standing to continue to betray his people, even if he were ignored by the Noble's Circle."

"So your source has a location?" Gral'Avah asked, flaring his multiple, flat nostrils in a batarian smile.

"Down to the landing zone." The commander's head reared back in an expression of triumph. "You will lead the assault. Prepare your men, and make sure the supplies are ready. Remember, I want them _both_ taken alive."

"And their protection?"

"Dispensable. Remain on Morpai for the time being, I will contact you when the time is right." And with that, the _Drelha_ cut his transmission, and his holographic avatar faded back into nothingness. Gral'Avah strode back outside to watch the sun sink in the failing light, anticipating the storm that was to come. Even in the brief few minutes he had been in conversation, the storm had rolled dramatically closer, enough that he could hear the faint rumble of thunder in the distance and sense its approach in the stillness of the air.

Gral'Avah let out a long, slow breath. The calm before the storm was to be savoured, for it was the wait that made the inevitable fury all the more exhilarating.

*****

A salute and a handshake was all it took to welcome Dieter Bloch to the _El Alamein_, who was all smiles as he stepped through the airlock and onto the bridge. Bloch was Swiss, but clearly enough from the German side as to rival Wagner for the title of most typically Germanic aboard, at least as far as build was concerned. Bloch was possessed of the same square frame and height, the set jaw and crystal clear eyes as Wagner was; he lacked only the blonde hair, a relic of centuries of interbreeding with the Gallic French.

What Wagner lacked in cheer, however, Bloch seemed determined to provide. Over the course of dinner that evening – or the time that was determined by the ship's schedule as evening – he made a point of engaging as many of the crewmembers in conversation as he could.

Anderson decided he would keep to himself. His relationship with politicians was not a complete success story, and unsure of how much information about him was being released to diplomats on Bloch's rung of the ladder, discretion seemed as though it would prove the better part of conversational valour in this instance. As was her wont, Doctor Rosberg had once again managed to divert a considerable portion of attention, including Bloch's, to her, as she launched into an account of what she and the crew of the cruiser _Shanghai_ had experienced during the Purge of Akuze.

Anderson had instead contented himself with the company of First Sergeant Gordon Bowman, an Englishman who was the commander's chief NCO both within his own four man squad, and for the entire eight strong complement of marines in general. Bowman had served most of his career in units that made a point of retaining several archaic marine ranks, rather than use the more generic standards that were officially in use by both Navy and Marine forces. On his paycheque – or electronic equivalent - Bowman was listed as an Operations Chief, but to everyone he served with, he was a First Sergeant.

Anderson remained unsure what he thought of the system, certainly it served to better distinguish the ground pounding marines from the ship strutting naval crewmembers, but whether that had a positive or negative effect on morale, the commander was yet to decide. Still, the rest of the marines used it, so he had resolved to do the same.

"So you've driven the Mako then?" Bowman asked as he skewered a potato with his fork.

"No, I was on the cannon," Anderson smiled, "definitely the more fun job."

"I'll bet," the marine chuckled, "makes the old Grizzly mount look like a pea shooter."

"It's amazing what they can do with mass effect fields," Anderson went on, "it's a stubby little gun, but it packs a terrific punch. I tried to use it to chisel away at a big rock this gang of pirates were using for cover, but ended up blowing both the cover and the pirates into bits. Took me by surprise, to say the least. God knows what the poor bastards behind the rock were thinking."

"Did you get to airdrop it?" Bowman asked eagerly, prompting a frown from Anderson.

"No," he said simply, "I'd been serving on cruisers, we had to use dropships. That's probably what I've been most excited about with this tour."

"Shame we haven't had the opportunity then."

"Exactly. Still, probably best not to start bitching. Especially with such a high ranking politician on the table." Anderson smirked.

"Right," Bowman grinned, "he might try and train you to do it properly."

Their conversation was interrupted by a tall, thickset man sinking heavily into the seat beside Bowman's.

"We may have a problem." The newcomer said in a pronounced Scottish burr. Anderson looked up and saw the trace of a worried frown lining his forehead.

"Oh?" Anderson said simply, taking another large bite out of his dinner.

"I was looking over our supplies with Kirilenko," Master Sergeant Gregor Murray continued, "I don't like the look of the weapon stores."

"What do you mean?" Anderson asked, puzzled, "Didn't we take on supplies back on Terra Nova?"

"For the original mission profile, yeah." Murray's mouth twitched sardonically. "We're loaded out with suppressed SMGs, stun grenades, anti-personnel rounds and light armour: all fine and good for pirate raids and boarding actions, but I wouldn't trust them for protection duty."

"That's all we have?" Suddenly Anderson was angry, "Goddamn it! A frigate on the frontier needs to be prepared for anything. What the hell is the point otherwise?" The commander let out a slow breath and looked up to see Bowman's grim face staring back at him.

"A change of orders usually come with the opportunity for resupply." The shaven-headed sergeant shrugged.

Anderson nodded slowly. It was a cold fact of military life he had come accustomed to over time; the Systems Alliance represented a colossal bureaucracy far larger than many thought humanity was ready for, and it was impossible for the military to play the protective servant to such a giant without itself becoming enmeshed in the same consuming establishment. While a Fifth Fleet cruiser might have been able to procure a full weapon stock, a frigate out on the fringes was limited to what resources the brass deemed necessary. Anderson found it gratingly perverse that everyone knew it was those same frigates that saw the most combat, but all the funding went to the ships in the public eye, and there wasn't a damn thing anyone on the _El Alamein_ could do to change that.

"I'll take it up with the captain," he told the two marines, "maybe there's a resupply station we can hit up before the meeting." With that, Anderson finished the rest of his dinner and headed to the cargo hold. He was off-duty, and he had a date with a bench and a barbell.

*****

Bathed in the faint glow of the holographic galaxy map, Anderson merely stood and watched the simulated progression of stars and clusters while the navigation team worked. Beside him stood the ever amiable Bloch, who until only moments ago had been enthusing about the beauty of the Horse Head Nebula and how its representation on the galaxy map simply did not do it justice. The commander was tempted to remind him of the fact that the technological limitations were such that even the current holographic avatar should rightfully be considered a work of art, but he had held his tongue.

Even if they had been able to find a comm buoy with which to contact the Alliance, it would have been a fruitless endeavour. Second Lieutenant Morgan Jones, the _El Alamein_'s chief navigation officer, had quickly established that the cluster they were bound for was utterly devoid of any official Alliance presence. Resupply from Alliance channels was impossible without a lengthy return trip to human space – and being late for their diplomatic rendezvous.

Captain Wagner had at first been willing to leave it at that, to trust the security measures would avoid any conflict at all. It was only at Anderson's urging that he had consented to seek alternative methods. The cluster designated for the meeting had been clearly chosen both for its relative emptiness and its near equidistance between the human and batarian sides of the Attican Traverse, but this left all too few trading hubs to explore. Given the economic situation in the cluster, Anderson's hopes for equipment of sufficient quality were rapidly diminishing.

"Sir, I may have found something." Lieutenant Jones spoke up from the terminal he had been crouched over, though he had not entirely made it clear whether he was speaking to Anderson or the Captain.

"Go ahead, Lieutenant." Wagner said with a nod before Anderson could.

"There's a world I've found listed that might just have the kind of weapons we're looking for, and it's just about en route to the relay that will take us to the rendezvous. Started off as a batarian proto colony before we came on the scene, but it developed into something of a trader outpost. Turians, asari, humans: they've all found some small representation there."

"Forget it," Wagner sighed, "we may not be in the Terminus Systems yet, but an Alliance vessel dropping out over a batarian controlled world? We'd be lucky if we made it to the surface, let alone get anywhere near a weapons dealer."

"Sir, this isn't technically a batarian world. They may represent the largest population percentage, but there's no real government there. A handful of mixed species security agents, but most of the inhabitants are merchants or farmers." Jones said, examining the database entry. Wagner said nothing, his eyes fixed on the star map.

"Sir, a human outpost this far on the frontier means human weapons and human armour, and if we're going to properly protect this meet, we need all the edge we can get. I can't even field adequate sniper cover at the moment." Anderson told his CO, hands behind his back.

"You're very determined, Commander." Wagner said softly.

"So I've been told," Anderson smiled, "I just feel we need to be prepared for anything."

"Mister Bloch?" Wagner's voice betrayed no hint of emotion as he turned to the diplomat to his right.

"We have time, I believe, before Alta'Thah arrives. And we must remember that this is far more than a simple exchange of words. Your men are about to protect an agreement that may change the face of galactic politics. Both our lives could be in danger, but it is more than that. We must think of all the lives on both sides of the Traverse that could be placed in danger if this agreement does not go through. If you have found resources we can use, I say we _should_ use them. Besides," Bloch said with a broad grin, "if this is a world where humans and batarians truly are living without killing each other, perhaps I can pick up a few tips."

"It's something I'd like to see as well." Anderson added, almost under his breath.

"Very well," Wagner relented, "plot in a course and upload the numbers to Lieutenant Horowitz."

"Aye, sir."

"I want time estimates, including an ETA for our arrival at the rendezvous point, within the hour." Wagner received a nod from the navigation officers and turned towards the flight station. "Oh," he said turning back, an inquisitive smile on his face, "what's the name of this planet?"

"The fifth planet of the Vharin system. A little world called Morpai."


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N: It's taken me a very long time to get the second chapter up, but here it is. Story's still being worked on, but Mass Effect 2's imminent release is probably going to put this back on hold for a while. This one's a slower one, but bear with it. Hopefully the ending should make it worth it.**

**I've also corrected a few typos and errors in the previous chapters. Chapter Three is hopefully coming soon as well.**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

"SSV _El Alamein_, this is Morpai port control. We have you tagged on our orbital grid and groundside missiles have you targeted. We advise you leave the system immediately."

"Port control, this is Captain Wagner of the Systems Alliance. We are not here in a military capacity," Anderson watched the captain intently as he spoke into the communications suite, "we are merely looking for supplies. We request a berth and access to human merchants on the ground." Wagner's face was as cool as a glacier, and his voice as steady.

"You're a long way from home, aren't you?"

"We had an urgent change of plans. We need supplies and this was the closest planet with human presence." Wagner said matter-of-factly. The translated batarian voice on the other end did not reply. At the distance between the _El Alamein_ and the surface, Anderson knew some lag was inevitable using direct communication, but this pause existed for another reason.

"Very well, _El Alamein_, we always welcome trade here. You will be allowed to land, but security officers will be posted to your ship and will accompany any who leave the vessel."

"Thank you, Control." Wagner said, almost letting the relief leak into his voice. Almost. "I assure you our visit here will be as brief as possible."

"We appreciate that, _El Alamein._ This may not be batarian space, but I'm sure you can understand Alliance presence here will make a lot of people nervous. Transmitting landing co-ordinates now." The communication cut off, and Wagner immediately strode back over to the navigation cluster to ensure his ship was being fed proper data.

Anderson let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding; he'd half expected to have been blasted out of the sky. The promise of an actual landing suddenly turned the commander's apprehension to the faint tingling of nascent excitement; Anderson felt he had been cooped in the confines of the frigate for far too long, and his feet already longed for the feel of earth beneath them. As marine detail commander, he expected he would be one of those chosen to go and procure the weapons, particularly as the whole trip had been made at his insistence.

"Commander, gear up and pick two of the marines to go with you. You're on the supply run." Wagner ordered from the navigation cluster, as if cued off Anderson's own thoughts.

"'Under local security escort'; you suppose that means krogan?" Horowitz asked from the pilot's chair. Anderson turned and nodded.

"I should think we'll see one or two. If a world like this can't afford them, we're wasting our time."

"Almost wish I was going in there too now," The lieutenant grinned, "you don't see many on the citadel. I'd love to actually get a look at one in the flesh."

"They're not animals in a zoo, Lieutenant." Anderson rebuked softly.

"I didn't mean it like that," the pilot flushed slightly, "I meant I'd like to… meet one. Talk, you know."

"I know what you meant," Anderson laughed, "just do me a favour and watch how you talk if you ever do meet one. Get on the wrong side of a krogan's temper and you'll know about it."

"I'll bear that in mind." Horowitz smiled sheepishly, "What about the batarians, do you reckon they're gonna give you any grief?"

"Maybe you should concentrate on getting this ship landed in one piece, Lieutenant." Anderson suggested as he made his way aft.

"Aye, sir." Horowitz sighed to himself, pulling the El Alamein out of orbit and down towards the surface.

A decisive man, Anderson was already considering which two marines he'd be taking into the trading hubs with him. Ideally, he wanted soldiers he could count on to keep their mouths shut, and a good lifting ability. Those requirements immediately recommended Corporal Vincent Lacan, a typically Gallic soldier in Anderson's own Fireteam Alpha who found simple mission updates to be too much conversation for him, and regularly blitzed his CO on the weights set down in the cargo bay. That left one other packhorse for him to find.

Anderson briefly considered enlisting the services of Alpha number two, Gordon Bowman, but settled instead on bringing in a soldier from Fireteam Bravo, the better to get to know someone from that little sub-unit. On the basis of mission requirement, in his mind that left him with a toss up between the equally physically able squad leader Gregor Murray and Corporal Arkady Kirilenko.

The lift ride down to the cargo bay was all the time he needed to finalise that decision.

"Lacan, Kirilenko!" Anderson barked as he stepped off the cargo elevator, "Gear up. We're going in to pick ourselves up some weapons." Barely acknowledging the respective ayes he received, he made his way over to the equipment lockers that adorned the wall opposite the shining new Mako IFV that squatted proudly to the bay's right. To reduce the image of hostility he knew he would inevitably have to portray as an Alliance soldier on a largely batarian world, the commander decided against the submachine gun and shotgun pair that would have usually slotted onto his back for a boarding operation.

Neglecting the hardsuit in a place like this would nonetheless have been lunacy, and he took care in ensuring the Hahne-Kedar suit was properly sealed. The Predator line of armour was of decent enough quality, and was one of many standard issue sets in the Alliance. Unfortunately, as befitting their original mission profile, the suit he had just slipped into was the lighter variant designed for excellent mobility at the cost of both armouring and kinetic barrier strength. It's white and grey colouring was fine for ship-to-ship boarding, but on the flora rich surface below, it would stand out worse than a wedding dress at a funeral.

Anderson shrugged his shoulders and flexed his arms before fixing a pistol to the hardpoint at his hip. The armour was comfortable, for now at least, and even in the climate controlled atmosphere of the cargo bay, he could feel its environment systems easing in. But for all the physical comfort the armour offered, Anderson found it far too lacking in the mental assurance department. The suit worked perfectly for deflecting fire from the relatively small calibre pistols and midrange scatter gun blasts one might expect to find on the average pirate vessel raid, but a sustained assault rifle burst or even a suitably high powered shotgun would tear right through it. And that was to say nothing of the large bore Personal Defence Weapons that crammed nearly as much firepower as a rifle into a package only a little bigger than a pistol, many of which were slowly making their way onto the market and it's blacker cousin.

Ignoring the jolts that rocked the ship as the _El Alamein_ dove down through the atmosphere, Anderson checked over the similarly armoured forms of his two companions. A stern glance was all it took to make Lacan put the sole assault rifle back in its cage, while Kirilenko was busy loading himself up with all the webbing and baggage he could bear. The frigate lurched upwards as Horowitz curbed its descent, and a final bump marked her landing only moments later.

"You're clear to debark, Commander." Wagner's voice came through Anderson's earpiece, and he made his way over to the large set of doors at the front of the bay. As he clamped his hand down on the control lever, Corporal Sarah Townsend popped her grease blackened face out from under the Mako and gave him a wave. Anderson smiled, and the corporal ducked back underneath the vehicle to pass Private First Class Satoshi Takama the wrench she had snared with her other hand. Anderson chuckled, and lead his two armoured subordinates out onto the flat concrete of the landing platform.

*****

"Why couldn't we have come out in the Mako?" Gunnery Chief Kirilenko queried sullenly from behind Anderson as the three marines trudged through a busy high street.

"Well, Chief, firstly because the sight of an Alliance IFV tearing down the streets of a largely batarian planet might give the wrong impression," Anderson replied, his voice neither a rebuke nor bearing any sympathy, "and secondly because after nearly three weeks cooped up in that tin-can frigate, I figured you marines could use a little exercise. Buck up, soldier, you two are the lucky ones." Beside Kirilenko, Lacan grunted in what Anderson assumed was agreement.

Their security escort, a pair of rifle-wielding batarians, had left them at the door of a dingy looking bar with a few half hearted mumbled warnings to stay out of trouble as they stepped inside. Clearly Anderson and his team were not deemed the threat he had thought they would be; though with the number of armed civilians in the streets, and the krogan he had seen patrolling the market, the commander was no longer surprised.

So far, their search had proven fruitless. Though Anderson had not expected much in the first hour and a half of wandering around the port town, he had hoped for at least a sign of someone who might be selling arms, particularly on a colony so close to the fringes of civilised space. They had been offered all manner of hanar liquors, batarian cuisine and unfriendly stares but had yet to find a human selling anything more protective than hiking boots.

"You lost, humans?" A chestnut skinned batarian sneered at them as he walked past. Anderson was about to ignore him, as he had all the others, when he caught sight of the pistol strapped not inconspicuously to his hip. This was not the first local he had seen so armed, but it was the first to be bearing what was either a military grade Hahne-Kedar weapon of human origin, or else a very close knockoff.

"I'd say we were more temporarily misplaced," Anderson said with what he hoped was a winning smile and a deferential tilt of the head to his left, "but maybe you can help us."

"You want help, human? I'll give you a free tip, don't bare your teeth at me." The alien replied scornfully.

"Sorry, it was meant to be a smile."

"I know," the batarian laughed, "I was joking with you human. There are enough humans on this world for me to have learned that particular 'expression'. It does not make it any less funny though."

"That pistol strapped to your hip, it's a human make correct?"

"Correct." The batarian said simply.

"Where did you get it?" Anderson's interlocutor laughed again.

"Straight to the point, I appreciate that human." The batarian lost his thin-lipped expression of mirth when he saw the look on Anderson's face; clearly he was also familiar with that facial image. "I have an acquaintance, as close to a friendship as it seems you can get between a human and a batarian, he sells that sort of thing. Not especially cheap, but judging by the gear you're wearing already, I'm going to assume that's not an issue for you."

"Can you take us to him?" Anderson asked, a little impatiently. The heat was doing little to help assuage his temper.

"If you stay on this planet for any length of time, you'll learn that we batarians are mercantile beings." The local said, a twinkle in all four of his eyes.

"Fine." Anderson sighed and withdrew a twenty credit chip from a pouch on his belt that he proceeded to hold up in front of him. The batarian promptly snatched the chip greedily, and a warped alien smile returned to his face.

"Right this way."

*****

"What's not to like?" The skinny, dark haired human asked with a sly grin. "The weather's good, the food's even better and, well, there's a certain freedom about this place that appeals to my, uh, colonial spirit." The wiry man's skin was mottled, his cheeks flushed pink while his forehead and eyelids remained pale. He was evidently new to the climate, suffering the effects of a decidedly uneven application of sunblock.

To Anderson, the man introduced to him as Damian Mitchell appeared easy going in nature, dressed in a simple, loose fitting off-white shirt that was open far enough to reveal a pink, relatively hairless chest. His mouth parted freely and often into a toothy smile, and his thin arms were draped flaccidly over a faded armchair in the corner of the shady room. But the commander felt that it was a surface façade only, that there was more to the trader than met the undiscerning eye.

Mitchell's own eyes were wide and bloodshot; the teeth that composed his ready smile were yellowed, as were the tips of his fingers. The man was clearly a smoker, a habit that had been all but eliminated in the health-conscious arcologies and metropolises of Earth, but abounded as it always had in the lower echelons of society. The eyes, however, and the relaxed poise suggested the nicotine addiction was merely to placate the cravings for another drug; Anderson's best guess was simple cannabis, but in this age of broadened, alien horizons, it could have been any number of equivalent alien narcotics on top of the 'traditional' human drugs.

"And so long as my suppliers keep coming through for me, the money out here ain't bad either." Mitchell's accent was unusually strong for a colonial, another clue that he was a relative newcomer to the wider galaxy, and Anderson recognised it instantly as the tongue of his homeland: London, albeit an old inflection from one of the great city's poorer quarters rather than the more sophisticated area in which Anderson had been raised.

"And just who are your suppliers?" Anderson asked, his voice a little harder than he had intended.

"I don't think they'd appreciate Alliance interest." Mitchell replied defensively. "Honestly, I don't ask where they get the stuff from; it's easier for everyone that way. If there's one thing I don't do, it's complications."

"So they could be pirates, raiders?"

"Yeah, they could be," Mitchell said, a sudden vicious edge in his voice, "I don't care. That's just how life works out here."

"I'm not sure I like this, Commander." Kirilenko said sourly.

"And I'm not sure I like the bloody Alliance poking round my shop!" the trader spat, his voice raised.

"Easy, we're not here to investigate anyone, and we're not looking for a fight." Anderson said, speaking to both his subordinate and to the merchant. "We need equipment, and I'm well aware that any we find here could be of dubious origin. It's a compromise I'm willing to make… for now."

David's eyes flicked over to the corner opposite the armchair, where their batarian guide loitered against the wall; he had been silent ever since introducing the marines to their fellow human, content with watching the proceedings.

"Alright, alright," Mitchell said sullenly, "this whole thing is making me a little jumpy. I came out here to get away from the Alliance. You said you wanted armour? I had some come in a couple of months ago, so far none of the mercs around here have had the cash to pay for it. Well, none of the human ones anyway."

"How many?" Kirilenko queried.

"Fifteen sets. Three light grade turian makes, three medium grade human sets, all from the black market. The other nine are Hahne-Kedar sets, a mix of medium and heavies."

Anderson raised an eyebrow at that.

"Hahne-Kedar? How did you come across those?"

"Interesting you should ask that, Commander. I was sold them by our mutual batarian friend." Mitchell smirked, gesturing with an open palm at the batarian still skulking in the corner. Anderson's left eyebrow joined his right to magnify his expression of surprise.

"Indeed?" He turned to the batarian, "And how might you have come across them?"

"A contact of mine," the alien shrugged, "says he took them from a shipment some government patrol impounded. I have no use for human armours, but I got them for a song, as you humans say, and the promise of profiting from selling them on to someone who could get rid of them was too hard to resist. I do a lot of business with Mitchell here." The batarian focused all four of his eyes on the scruffy human. "And it's not just hardware I deal with him in, isn't that right Damien?"

"Uh-huh." Mitchell said softly, his eyes averting the penetrating gaze of the batarians pearly orbs. The still anonymous alien returned to his silent vigil. "You still wanna deal?" Mitchell asked hopefully. Anderson sighed. He was liking this idea less and less. However he chose to take the batarian's comment, it did not paint a particularly tasteful origin for what he was loosely terming 'military surplus'.

"The Hahne-Kedar stuff," he began, "what class is it?"

"Two of the heavies are Mantis variants, I'm told. The rest are all Scorpions."

"Fits with the rendezvous point's terrain." Kirilenko observed. The Scorpion class armours were designed for barren, rocky or desert environments; including appropriate camouflage markings and protection from silica dust. That the planet suggested by the batarian ambassador as the meeting place fit this description had become a fortuitous coincidence.

"We'll take them." Anderson stated, and Mitchell's face lit up into what was probably the first genuine smile he had shown them. Almost inaudibly, the batarian behind them hissed through his teeth.

"All of them?" Mitchell asked.

"All of the Hahne-Kedar gear, yes."

"I'm still amazed you just happen to be carrying enough standard issue gear for the entire team." Kirilenko's voice was laced with suspicion. Anderson winced; though he doubted Mitchell could do much with the information, one did not simply go around revealing details like unit strength to unknowns. "You sure this was 'confiscated' off a shipment and not an actual marine detail?"

"Secure that, Chief." Anderson ordered abruptly. "We have priorities here."

"Aye, sir." Kirilenko replied stiffly.

"Now let's talk weapons," Anderson turned back to Mitchell, "I need two marksman rifles and eight assault rifles. I don't care about manufacturer or model, so long as they've got adaptable breeches and mounting rails." The commander's tone had become more urgent with his increasing desire to get back to the _El Alamein_ and off planet. There was something about Morpai he found simply unnerving, and the feeling of apprehension was only growing stronger.

"Sure," Mitchell shrugged, "the one thing I always seem to have in plentiful supply is guns." This time it appeared the dealer was more prepared to show his guests the goods before agreeing on a sale, as he lead them to a locked room filled with weapon racks.

Lacan let out a low whistle as he and the other soldiers stepped into the room behind Mitchell; the rack on the wall opposite was stocked with an array of high powered firearms, some familiar and others a little more exotic. The Frenchman hefted a particularly vicious looking rifle, whose short, curved grip was an awkward fit for his five digit hand.

"Turian assault rifles? I thought they'd made it illegal for private merchants to sell those on." Kirilenko said in a low voice.

"Still not figured out that the law doesn't mean jack out here, huh?" Mitchell replied sardonically. "I keep a few in their original configuration for the turian mercs you sometimes get passing through. If you're interested in turian firepower, I've got a few modified for humans. Haliat Armoury R38s, R50s and a few Thunders…"

"I think these will do." Anderson cut Mitchell off. In his hands, he held two Russian made Rosenkov K4 assault rifles, blocky and mean looking, they included an integrated scope and modular breeches designed to accommodate an array of ammunition types and firing modifiers. Treated in a ghostly white, they had stood out among the volus knock-offs and low calibre asari defence pistols. Higher quality than the standard issue Alliance weaponry, their corresponding higher cost had limited them to Special Forces deployment and Parliament Guards.

"Oh," Mitchell said, rubbing his hands together greedily, "I didn't know your appropriations budget was going to stretch that far."

"Kovalyovs?" Kirilenko said softly to Lacan. "And how the hell did he get his hands on those." Lacan nodded once, a grunt of disapproval resonating in his throat.

"My CO's an accommodating sort." Anderson stated, "That just leaves the snipers."

"I don't have many. There's not much call for them among the people I normally deal with. Buying _or_ selling."

"But you have those." Anderson gestured towards a pair of Ariake Tech Naginata sharpshooter rifles propped up in a corner.

"Ah," Mitchell began, a little nervously, "those are, uh, a special order."

"How much?" Anderson sighed.

"Fifteen thousand apiece."

"We'll take them. Those, eight of the Kovalyovs and the armour."

"Jesus, you boys really are serious aren't you?

"Boss?" Lacan's voice came from across the room. Anderson looked over to see him clutching the foregrip of a sizable light support weapon, its midsection swollen by the boxy ammunition feed, and its barrel long and deadly. "Please?" The marine said with a malevolent smile.

"You are not a kid in a sweet shop, marine, and I am not your damn babysitter." Anderson smiled back in mock sweetness. "But a squad auto might be a good idea. Alright Mitchell, drop one of the assault rifles, looks like I'm going to be spending even more Alliance money."

"Music to my ears, Commander." Mitchell said with a roguish grin, rubbing his hands together again. "Your men can start loading up if you want, they look eager to fill those bags of theirs. If you'll come through to the living room, we can get the transfer underway."

"What happened to your batarian friend?" Anderson inquired, in the midst of Kirilenko's collection of the various pieces of weaponry, noticing that the alien that had brought them to Mitchell was no longer present.

"Who, Darva? He's very good at just slipping out like that. There's always something on his agenda."

Anderson followed Mitchell into a dimly lit living room in yet another corner of his stone built house. Like the armchair in the front room, the furniture was soft but faded. And unlike the other rooms, this one had another occupant. A woman, as thin looking as Mitchell, was slumped in one of the chairs, her hand drumming softly on the coffee table beside her while her head rested idly on the back of the chair, eyes closed amid a tangle of dull blonde-brown hair.

"Oh. Hey Sandy," Mitchell said in mild surprise as he stepped through, "I didn't realise you were back."

"Huh?" Sandy mumbled sleepily as her head rolled over to face the two men. Her eyes widened as they fell on Anderson, and her mouth opened in surprise sufficiently for the commander to see a faint luminous sheen coating her pearly white teeth. So she was a duster, and by the look of her posture and blank stare, a regular and heavy one at that.

"Never mind, sweetie. I'm just doing some business with a new client."

"OK, honey. Darva been by?" Sandy's voice was wonderfully soft, a lyrical quality to it that reminded Anderson of the ethereal asari. The question was layered with such sweetness that Anderson almost ignored what it conveyed. Almost. Mitchell's nervous hand wringing only confirmed what Anderson began to suspect.

"He has, yeah, but he didn't stay long. Just, uh, introducing me to my new, uh, clients." Anderson understood the man's nervousness. Selling arms of dubious but unconfirmed origin was one thing, but the Alliance was notorious for its firm stance on drugs – particularly the interspecies trade that was dominated by the biotic inducing stimulant known as red sand.

Anderson himself could not have cared less about the two druggies, but Mitchell was not to have known that. Openly revealing the batarian as his dealer could have landed the alien in a steaming vat of Alliance brand hot water. Once again, Anderson marvelled at the role of chance in the universe; the one batarian they had approached had turned out to be a red sand dealing, armour selling buyer of human weapons from the best stocked source the commander had seen outside of specially designated Alliance requisition officers. Fervently, he hoped they hadn't already used up whatever intangible quantity of luck fate had deigned to bestow on this operation of theirs.

Once Mitchell had booted up his terminal, the process of transferring funds from the Alliance account Anderson had been provided with to Mitchell's own was relatively swift. The wonders of modern technology meant that electronic signals between Anderson's personal omni-tool and Mitchell's computer left little for the human operators to do, and left them both with the small grain of mistrust for the automated procedure that lingered among almost all that used the technology. Still, the electronics beeped their confirmation that all was well, and both men smiled with the knowledge that they had what they respectively wanted. Anderson had his weapons, and Mitchell his money.

Neither cared what the other would do with their new resources. Neither would ever know, though both had their suspicions. And for Anderson, that suspicion would turn out to be dead on. There was little of importance for addicts, and the signs were all too obvious.

Anderson returned to the storeroom to find his sack was loaded with collapsed weapons and folded armour – light given its generous cargo, but still heavy enough to elicit a grunt as the commander hefted the load over his shoulder.

"Fall out, marines." Anderson ordered, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. "Back to the ship; I know a couple of bored marines just crying out to spend the rest of the day cleaning rifles."

Lacan flashed a wicked grin, and the three soldiers took their leave.

*****

"I need to speak with the _Haikr_." The batarian known to both Mitchell and Anderson as Darva leaned against a shaded wall in one of the settlement's many back alleys, the orange light of his omni-tool's holographic interface dancing before him. His eyes were drawn to the small green projection that was currently showing he was receiving excellent signal strength from the planet's communication network. "Yes it's important," he said on hearing the reply in his earpiece, "of course it's important. Do you think I would be contacting him like this if it weren't?" There was a slight pause as the transmission was rerouted to the Darva's intended recipient, enough time for him to spit the word "idiot" into the silence, purging the slight irritation the lackey had brought on.

"_Haikr_!" Darva said as he was finally connected, "We may have a problem."

*****

It had been too long, Gral'Avah realised with a jolt, since he had felt fear. Too long since he had sat in a bunker while Alliance soldiers pounded it with mortars and conquered the incredible fear he had felt by cleaving two humans of the assault team in two with a mounted machine gun. The tremble in his legs and the quivering of his skin he had felt on hearing the news was enough to tell him that he had been living a life of comfort for too long.

The Alliance had come to Morpai, and they were arming themselves for war. That could mean but one thing: he had been found. He did not know whether the presence of this frigate signalled a scouting party, a pre-emptive strike force or the first ship in a flotilla prepared to bring war to his little planet, but Gral'Avah was determined to bring his wrath on their efforts. He would ensure these invaders never left the planet, and he would do it before they ruined his plans. The _Drelha_ had planned this operation too well for it to be scuppered by a chance Alliance patrol, or whatever this unwanted frigate represented, and Gral'Avah would be damned before letting his sphere of responsibility be the one that failed his commander.

Fortunately, this was not an entirely unforeseen circumstance. His men, and more importantly his base of operations, were prepared and equipped to deal with this incursion.

"Ready the _harpaks_, get those covers off!" He shouted as he strode from his command bunker towards one edge of the compound. Immediately, a dozen batarians began pulling at the corners of camouflage netting fixed a few feet off the ground, disconnecting them from their mounts embedded in a protective ring of sandbags to reveal the weapons they hid. Under each net was a pair of fearsome looking missiles, just over two metres long, loaded onto a launch rack that began tilting back even as the camouflage nets hit the ground. Each missile was loaded with a high explosive warhead and a combination radio-infrared guidance system; and there were six such emplacements scattered about the compound.

Loosely translated as 'rapier' in English, a _harpak_ was an ancient thin sword that had been used by the batarian nobility in times past. To bestow the moniker on a modern weapon, in a society that so prided itself on the virtues of nobility was a measure of extreme confidence in the weapon's design. As the two man crews of emplacements one and two began linking the missiles into their tracking radars, all they had to do was wait.

*****

Captain Wagner had given the weapons a cursory glance. As an officer of the System Alliance Navy, and its closely integrated Marine Corps, he had received weapons training and partaken in many of the exercises that kept the marines sharp; but he was a navy man through and through, and had never had much love for the intricacies of close quarters combat, much less used a firearm in anger. All that interested him was that the gear they had acquired was uniformly human in manufacture, and uniformly high quality.

Along with the rest of the bridge crew, the captain was itching to get back spaceward where they belonged, and Lieutenant Horowitz was instructed to begin lift off procedures as soon as the errant marines were returned. Down below in the cargo hold, the marines looked on with glee as the weapons and armour were unloaded by the worn out looking soldiers who had conveyed them. Anderson himself wasted no time in instructing Corporal Sarah Townsend and Private Sato Takama to get cleaning the weapons. As he put it, they were to see it as a bonding exercise, for both were in different fireteams. If nothing else, he had succeeded in wiping the smug smiles off their faces and reminded them that what The Almighty Commander giveth with one hand, he may taketh just as swiftly with the other.

With a minimal amount of systems shut down during the landing, Horowitz was able to bring the ship up to power with considerable alacrity. Much to Wagner's consternation, however, the starport had not been built with military vessels in mind. More specifically, it's placement in the midst of the settlement and relatively low-grade construction meant that the heat from the _El Alamein_'s military grade antimatter reaction thrusters would cause immense damage during the burn through the atmosphere. That required the frigate's drive core to spin up the enveloping mass effect field that enabled the physics defying faster-than-light flight almost to full power; with the ship so lightened, a small push from the ventral manoeuvring thrusters would be all that was required to lift the ship into the air and point it towards space. What concerned Wagner was the time it would take to gain sufficient distance from the small city before they could light the thrusters and leave the backwater a distant memory.

Having discharged the static build up in the drive core on landing, Horowitz had a lot of give to work with. Trusting that they could dump whatever he built up during lift off into a nearby gas giant before continuing, he ramped the drive up to maximum far quicker than would normally have been recommended and fired the jets. The ship's mass had been reduced so much that the small push provided hurled it upwards with a jolt.

"Easy, Lieutenant. We're not in that much of a rush." Wagner said calmly as he relaxed his sudden grip on his chair.

"Aye, sir." Horowitz replied, dialling back the strength of the mass effect field a little before initiating the manoeuvre that would bring them around. From there, the pilot eased into the role a little more, and the ride became reminiscent of a planet-bound airliner as the frigate tilted back and headed for open air.

*****

"We have them!" the stocky batarian sat aside the first emplacement called to Gral'Avah. "Lift off confirmed, radar is tracking them. They're making for the open."

"Fire." Gral'Avah said simply. Both missiles of emplacement one rocketed off their launch rack with a thunderous roar, and were joined swiftly by those of emplacement two. Gral'Avah was taking no chances, even though a single missile would probably have sufficed.

As the missiles began rapidly closing the kilometres separating them from their target, their internal guidance computers took over from the designators at the launch site, homing in on the radio signal pinging the frigate. At several times the speed of sound, the missiles' rocket motors ate up the distance with a speed that stunned their operators.

*****

"Missile lock!" Horowitz shouted over the low warbling of the detection alarm.

"What?" Wagner shouted, racing from the CIC to the pilot's station.

"I don't know! But the systems are screaming we're being pinged."

"How long till we break atmo?" Wagner asked desperately.

"Too long." Was the pilot's solemn reply.

"Weapons! Power up the GARDIAN. Begin target acquisition." Wagner ordered back towards the gunnery stations that preceded the CIC. "Keep burning up." He turned back to the pilot, knowing that as soon as they could fire the main thrusters, they would leave the incoming missiles for dead.

*****

Down in the cargo bay, the sound of the combat alert was about as expected among the marines as a sudden song and dance routine from Lacan. Anderson's hand immediately went to the sidearm still on his hip, but he stopped himself short as he realised that they were still in the atmosphere, and no amount of readiness on his part would make the slightest difference to whatever obviously external peril they had been placed in.

The concern felt by all the marines was manifested uniformly on their faces, the sense of helplessness they all felt etched into all too visible lines.

"Stay here," Anderson barked, "I'll find out what's happening. Be alert, and be ready to brace yourselves." He added, already beginning to suspect the nature of the alarm. A brisk walk carried him over towards the elevator.

*****

The _El Alamein_'s GARDIAN laser defence system was a relatively new technology that could trace its roots through the decades to early laser based missile defence systems thought up well before even the establishment of the Lunar colony. In truth, the concept had evolved little since those early days of theory, as the system was still designed to provide protection from incoming projectiles. The scope of the system, with its rapid target acquisition, so-called 'frictionless' swivel bearings and near perfectly spherical overall field of fire was the heart of the technologies advancement.

The system had began warming up and locked onto its targets as soon as the passive sensors had picked up the radar ping. The missiles were inbound on a straight trajectory, and still screaming their presence into the frigate's sensor array. At ten kilometres from impact, however, two important changes happened.

First, the missiles abruptly shut off their radar trackers and the connection with the groundside computers, switching instead to onboard infrared trackers. Secondly, the onboard computer initiated a sequence of random manoeuvres carefully crafted by technicians to throw off any lock that might have been achieved by the targets own active sensor systems, while still gaining ground on the target. The result was that, all of a sudden, the missiles no longer appeared on the frigate's monitors – and more importantly, were no longer registering in the GARDIAN system's targeting apparatus.

An inexperienced pilot and crew may have assumed the missile attack to be aborted, or that the whole thing had been an artefact of sensor trickery. Lev Horowitz had never been on the receiving end of such a missile attack before, but he was nonetheless considered an experienced pilot – the diplomatic mission the _El Alamein_ had been tasked with would not have been given to a vessel without one – and somewhere deep within the recesses of his memory, he recalled mention of this potential occurrence in his vast training regimen. The Lieutenant, therefore, was not fooled by the sudden disappearance of the missiles from the tracking grid.

That was not to say he was prepared, though. He continued evasive manoeuvres with the drive core still spinning rather than shutting down as many systems as he could and using the few seconds of rapid freefall with minimal heat emission to vanish from the missiles own tracking systems. The gunnery crew too tried to reacquire the inbound weapons on the sensors, even though the scanning beams were just one more source of electromagnetic radiation by which the missiles could track their target.

All this Captain Wagner was dimly aware of, but the missiles did not give him enough time to react to the information, come to a decision and then issue and order that could be carried out before impact.

At a distance of three kilometres, the missiles' exhaust was finally picked up, and the GARDIAN array fired a volley of lasers at the targets. It was too little, too late. The lasers burned through the first two missiles, causing them to detonate at a very close, but safe distance from the frigate. The tactics employed by the missiles and their operators were sufficient, however, and the lasers were still spinning around in their mounts when missile number three struck the frigate towards its stern. That alone would have been enough to disable the ship, but Gral'Avah had wanted to be sure. A fraction of a second later, the last missile struck amidships.

*****

"We're hit!" Horowitz yelled above the din of alarm, cries of shock and pain, and the unearthly rumble of the ship itself as systems failed and explosions shook off chunks of hull plating and infrastructure. There was no one to hear him. Whether through a design fault, a poor repair job or sheer chance no one would ever know, but the sudden failure of the drive core as the first missile detonated was sufficient to cause one of the auxiliary control consoles to overload and explode, an unanticipated event that had killed the junior officer seated in the co-pilot's chair.

Behind the pilot, Captain Wagner had been thrown to the floor by the impact. He lay unconscious, blood seeping from a head wound and mingling with that of another injury that Horowitz did not have time to look for. The rest of the bridge crew was either too far back to hear the pilot's shouts, or else too preoccupied with the more immediate sounds of the alert klaxon or the more personal sounds of injured crewmates.

Horowitz himself was dazed, a hazy fog seemed to cloud his vision and his senses felt dulled. A tiny voice in his brain was able to pierce the all-encompassing cacophony, screaming at his heavy limbs to move. Desperately, the pilot sought to regain his focus, a small corner of his mind terrified in its awareness of the frigate's falling altitude. Gritting his teeth, Horowitz fought through the haze and began battling with the ship to regain control, feeling his strength sapping with every frantic pull on the control yoke.

*****

Blinking through his swimming vision, Anderson saw the elevator he had been standing only a foot away from was now several metres away, and in an entirely different orientation. Struggling with his confused senses, he realised he was lying on his back on the cargo bay floor, his eyes looking down across his body to the smoke that bloomed from the elevator like a roiling thundercloud. The buzzing in his ears began to thin, and he became aware of voices. Some were just incoherent noise, shouts of pain and fear, but amid the confusion he could discern a clearer, crisper voice and able to make out true words.

"…you alright? Commander?" It was the cool, English accented voice of Gordon Bowman, and Anderson was incredibly relieved to hear it.

"I'm OK." He breathed, not entirely sure he meant it.

"Glad to hear it, sir." Bowman smiled as he helped his CO to his feet. Almost immediately he could feel himself start to topple over again. "Take it easy," Bowman said, a grim look on his face, "we're still falling. Horowitz is pulling some pretty fierce manoeuvres by the feel of it. It's strobing with the artificial gravity something fierce."

"Everyone alright?" Anderson wheezed as loudly as he was able. He was answered with a smattering of pained affirmatives, but affirmatives nonetheless. "Well keep yourselves braced, marines. I have the feeling this is only going to get worse before it gets better."

*****

Stefan Wagner's eyes shot open, and despite the near inexorable resistance offered by the throbbing pain in his head, he leapt to his feet as fast as his incomprehensibly aching legs would allow, ignoring the curious dull pain that seemed to be afflicting his abdomen.

"Report!" He rasped, eliciting a grim smile from the pilot up front as the relief that his captain was not dead set in.

"Two of the missiles hit," Horowitz said through gritted teeth, "drive core's blown to hell. Mass effect fields are down and the jets aren't keeping us up. I've managed to level her out somewhat and coax a bit of power from the thrusters, but containment on the tank's failing. The whole stock of fuel could annihilate any second if I keep the reactor running. At the moment we're in a freefall glide, and I don't like our rate of descent." Under the circumstances, what would otherwise have been a brief report felt like a bloated discourse. Wagner staggered over to an internal comm station and flicked one of the switches.

"Engineering, this is the Captain. Do you read?"

"I hear you, sir." Coughed the voice of Operations Chief Shauna Roberts, the chief engineer.

"Filter enough reactant matter directly into the thrusters for a three second burst, and make ready to dump the reactor as soon as that's done. Preferably before it goes critical."

"That much fuel and coolant could flood the thrusters. I might be able to get two seconds worth in there, but even that's pushing it."

"Do whatever you can, and get that timebomb of a reactor off my ship!"

"Aye, sir." Came the wearied reply.

"Deploy the flaps." This was to Horowitz again.

"At the speed we're going, they'll only be ripped off." The pilot shouted back.

"I know." Wagner stated. "That's the point. We get as much mass off the ship as possible, and use whatever mass effect field we can get to decrease our momentum at the point of impact."

"Aye, sir."

As Wagner gave a worried glance at the digital readout currently in use as the altimeter, a sharp pain jolted in his abdomen, its intensity so much greater than the dull ache that had preceded it that he let out a cry of pain. Looking down, Wagner nearly passed out from the shock of what he saw. Amid a mess of blood staining the tattered remains of the lower part of his tunic, he saw… _What the hell is that?_ A jagged, red stained sliver of metal was protruding from his spleen. Wagner's skin went cold, a trail of freezing, clammy sweat suddenly trickling noticeably down his back. As he forced his eyes to return to focus, the captain tentatively identified the foreign object as a segment of the railing that surrounded the galaxy map, currently flickering as its power failed.

Wounded by an object created ostensibly for safety; as the numbness spreading through his nerves slowly dulled the pain, Wagner began to appreciate the irony.

*****

"The ship's altitude is dropping rapidly," a pudgy, bespectacled batarian hunched over a console display called out, "I'm tracking their descent as best I can."

"Good." Gral'Avah nodded, his thin mouth contorted in satisfaction. "Ready two teams," he ordered, turning to the batarian at his side, realising with sudden distaste that it was the newly arrived greenskin who had greeted him on his return to the camp, "get them ready to move out to the crash site. I want to make absolutely sure these humans won't be a problem."

"I'll assemble them at once, sir." The subordinate responded in a deep voice that carried more than its fair share of smarm and smugness, at least to Gral'Avah's rather prejudiced ears. Faintly, in a recessed corner of his mind, Perrin entertained thoughts of going along himself and maybe claiming some human scalps. He dismissed the thoughts almost as quickly as they had formed; he was a leader now, and a good leader did not do himself what he could dictate others to do for him.

*****

Lev Horowitz's arms felt as though they were on fire, yet still he strained against the leaden flight controls. His eyes streamed and his mouth burned as he coughed through smoke that billowed from overloaded consoles. But he continued fighting. Captain Wagner had slumped back down behind him, but his last command echoed in the pilot's ears. _Get us as close to safety as possible_. Horowtiz suspected he had meant the port, but their erratic descent had put them too far away to make that possible.

Instead, Horowtiz saw only the twisted fingers of jungle foliage reaching up to meet his scarred ship. Lev could no longer tell if those branches would cushion the fall or tear the _El Alamein_ to shreds, he simply knew that the ultimate destination of him and the crew he had sworn to save was no longer in his hands.

Horowtiz closed his eyes as the first protruding branch whipped the underside of the frigate. And as the first bone-shattering collision rattled through the ship, Horowitzknew only darkness.


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N: Again, a bit of delay getting this up but it's finally here. The pace should pick up a little now. A few more typos from previous chapters have been corrected, and I've slightly readjusted the marines' ranks to be a bit more realistic (four or five got demoted). Hope there's still someone reading and enjoying this.**

**Chapter Three**

Fighting through the haze swimming through his consciousness, Anderson forced himself to open his eyes, despite the throbbing in his head. As the world around him became decidedly more corporeal, Anderson found the reason for the pounding head – somehow he had been flipped upside-down, propped against the heavy metal frame of the Mako IFV. Fearing another blackout from the blood rushing to his head, he swiftly righted himself, ignoring the ache that pulsed through his limbs with every rapid heartbeat.

"Marines!" He rasped as loudly as his throat would allow. "Report!" He was answered by a smattering of weak voices, and the announcement that Takama and Kirilenko were both unconscious.

"Orders, sir?" Sarah Townsend asked, her voice as hoarse as Anderson's through the smoke and dust.

"We get off this ship and get as deep into the jungle as we can. Bowman, you take the lead. Take both squads, gear up and establish a camp. On the Goddamn double! Ebadi, you're with me – we're pulling the wounded out."

Private Second Class Maruf Ebadi, the only marine trained as a medic, groaned as he picked himself up off the deck.

"Aye, sir." He muttered.

Anderson limped over to the cargo bay's intercom and smacked an armoured fist into the activation switch.

"Anderson to bridge, does anyone copy?" The only reply the commander received was an abrupt spark and a faint wisp of smoke from the speaker. "Damn. Ebadi, open the lift maintenance hatch – we're going up the shaft."

"On it, Commander." The private wasted no time trying to pry the hatch in the roof of the elevator open, rightly assuming its mechanism would have been damaged in the crash. Instead, he fired a few rounds from his pistol into the hinges and pushed the twisted sheet of metal up. Anderson hauled himself up first, and began climbing the ladder affixed to the wall of the lift shaft, ignoring the ache in his right leg.

The climb to the above deck was mercifully brief, and the two marines were soon outside the mess.

"Check them out," Anderson ordered Ebadi, referring to three prone figures on the floor of the mess, "I'm going to the medbay."

The private nodded and knelt beside the nearest crewman, an engineer. Anderson made his way over collapsed bulkheads and sparking power cables to the medbay, thumbing the door switch he was relieved to see it still had power.

"Help me!" A voice said from the far side of the darkened bay as Anderson stepped over the threshold, "It's Doctor Rosberg, she's pinned under this gurney!"

Thinking quickly, Anderson pulled his omni-tool from his belt and thumbed on the flashlight.

"Who's over there?" He called out.

"Serviceman Carter, I'm the junior medical officer."

"Hold on, I'll give you a hand."

The commander picked his way carefully across the ruined medbay, glad that there had been no patients in here at the time of the attack. He reached the far end and knelt beside Carter, who was straining to lift one of the heavy beds off the doctor. How it had been detached from the floor, Anderson did not care to guess. Nonetheless, it was an impressive display of force, whether from missile detonation or the impact of the crash. On inspection in the light of his omni-tool, Anderson could see that Rosberg was trapped only by her legs, but her face was pale under a dark coating of dust and debris, and her eyes were closed. Anderson reached across, through a tangled mess of cables that protruded from a destroyed control panel, and placed two fingers on her throat.

"Carter, leave it. She's dead."

"What?" The young medic replied in disbelief. "She can't be, get some medigel – the dispenser's over there."

"It won't do any good. She's gone."

"Jesus! What the hell are we gonna do?"

"I need you to focus; there are a lot of wounded men out there and I can't help all of them with just a squad medic and a couple of medigel syringes. Get yourself together! We need to get off this ship before something worse happens." Anderson said urgently.

"Aye… aye, sir. There's a few things I need to get."

"Well get them quickly, we've got to get to the bridge."

Anderson stood, guiding Carter with his omni-tool as the medic grabbed medkits and treatment bags, loading himself up with all the medical supplies he could carry.

"Commander, this is Bowman. Do you copy?" The sergeant's voice came across Anderson's suit radio.

"Copy, Bowman. Status?"

"We've got Takama and Kirilenko off. There's a small clearing about two hundred metres from the crash site. We're digging in some light defences and getting ready to receive wounded as best we can."

"Acknowledged. Two hundred metres is pretty close."

"I'm aware of that, sir. This is just until we can get everyone off."

"Understood. Good work, Bowman. Keep the squad on alert."

"Aye, sir."

Anderson led Serviceman Carter, laden with medical gear, out of the wrecked medbay and back towards the mess, where they picked up Ebadi.

"Two of them are dead, sir. The engineer's still alive and mostly uninjured. I've given him a small stim to get him on his feet. He's getting the engineering team out through the cargo bay." Ebadi coughed raucously. "This place is filling up with dust and smoke. We need to get out soon, Commander."

"Agreed. Rosberg's dead."

"Damn, that's not good." The private shook his head, aware of the extra responsibility that had just been heaped upon him.

"You and Carter here are now the only medics, we need to get up to the bridge."

"I'm right behind you, sir."

The three of them climbed the stairs to the bridge as fast as their respective aches and pains allowed, and emerged to find the ship's control centre even smokier and more damaged than the lower deck.

"Spread out," Anderson coughed, "let's get this done as quickly as possible." The commander made his way to the flight station, ignoring most of the moans for help he heard along the way. If they could talk, they were fine, he reasoned. The CIC was a mess, control panels were smashed and trailing fibre optic cables and power lines. The navigation cluster appeared to have overloaded, twisted metal had showered the deck immediately adjacent to it and the galaxy map was gone from its centre, the projector just as broken as the rest of the equipment.

Anderson looked down at the trio of immobile bodies on the deck at his feet, shocked to see that one of them was Ambassador Bloch, a conspicuous gash running down his cheek. A quick check showed that all three men were merely unconscious, and Anderson called Carter over to get them on their feet. As important as Bloch was, Anderson was looking for someone he considered higher priority, given the severity of the situation they were in.

"Anderson," a pained grunt came from the forward section of the bridge, "over here!" The commander looked up to see Captain Wagner slumped against the weapons console, blood streaming from a wound in his head as a young woman knelt beside him, trying to stem the flow. As he drew closer, Anderson could see the captain clutching at his side, his hand bathed in crimson blood. Beyond Wagner's slumped form, he could see Horowitz's limp body sprawled over his console, amid a dense clutter of twisted metal and plant material. The _El Alamein_ had ploughed head first into the trees; Horowitz had never stood a chance.

"Lev's gone." The young woman kneeling by the Captain said mournfully, confirming Anderson's suspicions. As he crouched alongside her, he recognised her in the dim light as Ensign Lydia Bramble, a trainee from the Naval Academy. "The Captain's still going strong though, right Skipper?" She gave a faint a smile.

"Lydia," Bramble visibly jolted as Wagner said the word, no one had used her first name in weeks, "thank you. Go and help our two intrepid medics there, they need your assistance more than I do." Anderson leaned in as Bramble moved over to aid Ebadi.

"Captain, can you stand? We need to get you off the ship quickly!"

"No point," Wagner coughed bitterly, "I'm not going anywhere." He gestured to his abdomen, moving his hand to reveal a gaping wound occupied by a bloodstained shard of metal. "I'm bleeding out, and I'm going to assume the medbay isn't in a fit state to receive casualties." It was a statement with no hint of query.

"No, sir. Doctor Rosberg's dead. I have Ebadi and Carter doing what they can, but that's… limited."

"Shit," Wagner breathed softly, his eyes closing as his head slowly rolled back, "that leaves you with one option. You have to get everyone back to the port, and call for help."

"Aye, sir. But we're taking you with us, we've got medigel…"

"No good." Wagner cut him off, his breathing shallow under a pained wince. "Medigel's only going to patch up the hole, it's not going to repair anything on the inside. I'll keep opening up, and you'll have to keep reapplying. If someone wants us dead this badly, they'll be coming to finish the job. You're going to need all the medigel you've got before you make it back to the port." Anderson nodded solemnly. He had seen it before; medigel was a wondrous medical marvel, but it was not the perfect solution. Not yet anyway. But no matter how used he may have been to dealing with the things medicine could not fix, it never got any easier; less so when the wounded individual was a superior. "Don't waste what you've got on someone who's not fit to fight. And that's an order." Wagner added with a stiff smile.

"Understood, sir." Anderson stood, handing Wagner his sidearm as he did. "For whatever you decide."

"Grenades," Wagner rasped, "rig the bridge. They mustn't get their hands on the computers. I'll set them off…" he coughed, eyes shut tight through the pain, "when the time comes. Now get the crew out of here. You're the ranking officer now, Commander. You're in charge. I know you'll get them home."

"I will, I promise you that sir. And Captain…"

"Just go, Anderson." Wagner said with a forced smile. "You don't have time for this, and I know what you're going to say."

"Just… thank you, sir."

"Understood, soldier. Now get moving before I change my damn mind about that medigel." Wagner hefted the pistol, growing accustomed to its balance as he watched as Carter and Ebadi moved the surviving bridge crew out, and as Anderson placed a series of grenades around the already ruined bridge. The final one went to Wagner, who took it with a silent nod and a last smile; a mask of forced courage that barely concealed the dying captain's consuming fear. Anderson strode off the bridge, dimly aware that he would be the last person to do so.

The assembled crew in the jungle clearing was as cheerless as one may have expected of men and women in their situation, most of them attempting to find some menial chore to keep their minds occupied and away from panicked thoughts. As he approached, Anderson was greeted with a salute from Gordon Bowman.

"Commander," he said somewhat stiffly, "we're awaiting your orders. I've had the squad pull all they equipment they can out of the hold, and they're gearing up now. We're handing out the old hardsuits to the crew, as best as we're able. Not sure how much good they'll do out here though."

"Well, they're climate controlled if nothing else," Anderson replied with a grim smile, "should cut down on dehydration, at least for a while. We'd best get moving, something tells me this place is going to swarming with hostiles in the all-too-near future."

"Aye, sir. Get moving where?" The question was delivered so bluntly that Anderson couldn't prevent a brief chuckle escape his lips.

"Jones!" Anderson called over to Second Lieutenant Morgan Jones, "You think you can navigate a jungle as well as you can a star cluster?"

"I guess," Jones simply shrugged, not catching the humour, "just give me the right map."

"How about a compass and a bearing?" The commander said lightly.

"I can make do." Jones scratched his head and went back to slipping into the set of lightweight Onyx armour so disdained by Anderson for its lack of suitability for the environment.

"Someone needs to give that man a sense of humour transplant." Anderson muttered quietly.

"Give me two hours and a set of electrodes, and I'll have him laugh at anything you want, boss." Lacan said softly, flashing a wicked grin. The commander laughed again and returned his gaze to Bowman.

"I want you to attach yourself to Ambassador Bloch, don't let him out of your sight. He's got a few scratches, but nothing serious. Once Ebadi's finished with him, you're to become his new best friend, understood?"

"Perfectly, sir." Bowman nodded off and made his way over to the dazed diplomat, his lips parting in a sympathetic smile as Bloch looked up at him. The man had never been close to a combat situation before, as was to be expected, and was visibly shaken.

"Takama, you got your senses about you yet?" Anderson queried a still decidedly groggy looking Sato.

"Vision and hearing coming in five by five, sir." The private said with a wry smile.

"Good, because you're on point. We're making for the port, and as none of us have a damn clue where we are, we're taking the straight line route. Get the bearing from Lieutenant Jones and move out. The rest of you, grab whatever gear you can carry and get into formation. Marines, I'm relying on you to keep the non-combat personnel where they need to be and to keep them safe. Let's get to it, people." Finally, Anderson slapped on his harduit's helmet and waited a few moments for its heads-up-display to initialise. He picked up one of their brand new Kovalyov assault rifles and shouldered a rucksack. The two marine fireteams managed to co-ordinate the survivors into a loose formation and, with a nod from Anderson, Takama began the long trek to the port, his fingers tight around the grip of his rifle.

"The storm's closing in, _Haikr_, it's too dangerous to get the chopper in the air." Gral'Avah hissed audibly at the green skinned batarian, it was all too fitting that the very same storm he had been admiring less than half an hour ago was no scuppering his plans. That was just his lot in life.

"So take the rovers!" He shouted. "Fix the mounted guns and get driving. Surely you can find a team of men brave enough to face a little rain? And if not, give them _krahking_ umbrellas!"

"Yes, sir." The greenskin nodded and strode off. This was a setback, Gral'Avah acknowledged. If any of the humans had survived the crash, they would likely not stick around long. He had hoped to get the sole light VTOL craft fielded by the outpost on the scene as quickly as possible, allowing his men to rain down fire from a safe position and denying the humans the means to hide or outrun them. Once again, the planet itself seemed to be conspiring against him. And the _Haikr_ knew how the humans worked, he knew how easy it was for them to wriggle away through the contemptible jungles like filth ridden vermin. Even as the three rovers fired up the engines and sped out of the garage, laden with armed men, Grak'Avah knew they would not get there in time. He knew that they would have to hunt the animals down amid the perils of the squalid, messy jungle.

Still, those hairless buffoons from the homeworld might make themselves useful, more accustomed to the climate as they were. And this way, Gral'Avah could take the chopper himself and act as a field commander from the sky. That would take the edge of his responsibilities, he reasoned. An aerial view of the carnage, and the opportunity to gain a few kills for himself; what a sweet feeling that would be, some small vengeance for the friends he had seen fall at the clammy hands of the humans.

That green skinned squad leader was proving to be a greater irritant than he had first thought, however. Worse, he was just as capable, which of course reinforced Gral'Avah's disdain. He was bold, though, perhaps bold enough to lead by example rather than force of words. Maybe he'd get himself killed while hunting those humans. That really would be selling two _felkhas_ to one _vreylip_. The _Haikr_ sighed as he watched the dust trails left by the rovers diminish, it was time for him to report this disturbance to his would be Lord And Master. Privately, Perrin hoped the _Drelha_ might reward him for his quick thinking, though in truth he expected little praise. The boss was a hard man to please. In that respect, Gral'Avah decided with a soft smile, he was no different from any other working man.

"You coping alright, Lieutenant?" Anderson asked Monica Perez sympathetically, the comms officer was nursing an ugly bruise above her right eye and a pulled muscle in her arm was giving her grief.

"I'll manage, sir." She said with a weak smile that did little to conceal the trepidation in her eyes. As an officer, she had been afforded one of the sets of armour made redundant by the marine detail's recent purchases, but she was clearly uncomfortable with it. Her head injuries had made the helmet too painful, and her brow was moist with sweat. The Onyx armour's dark finish provided little in the way of camouflage, even amid the shadowy recesses of the jungle, and Perez was evidently feeling self-conscious, a feeling attenuated by her lack of combat experience and corresponding absence of familiarity with the battle gear. "This sounds selfish of me to say, sir, given our situation, but I'm actually getting a little hungry."

And so it had began, Anderson resigned himself to the inevitable. They had been on the march for the better part of three hours, and between the fast pace set by Sato Takama and the subsiding of shock brought on by the crash and the sudden death of several crewmembers, the captain included, meant that energy reserves were dwindling. The crew was going to need nourishment soon, and Anderson knew they were only carrying limited amounts. This, coupled with his unease at stopping so close to the crash site, left the commander reluctant to accede to the growing demand for rest and food.

"We need to put a bit more ground between us and the crash site before we can stop, I'm sorry Lieutenant."

"I understand, sir." Perez said glumly. "I just wish the Captain had made it out…" Anderson knew she hadn't meant it, but the casual comment left a sting at the back of his mind. He knew it was hard for the non combat personnel to trust him, after all he was a newcomer not only to the ship but also to the role of command over such a large group. He also knew that Perez had been close to Wagner, possibly even closer than his predecessor and he realised that she was still numb with shock, that true grief would set in with time. However, the last thing he wanted to feel at the moment was doubt, particularly doubt in himself.

"I'm not going to lie, Monica," he said meaningfully as they picked their way over a fallen tree, "we're in some fairly deep shit here. But we'll get through this. We just so happen to have eight of the best trained, and now best equipped marines in the Traverse, and all of us want to get home as badly as you do."

"What happens when we get to the port, sir?"

"Honestly," the commander said with a humourless smile, "I haven't decided. Either we try and acquire a transport off planet, or we call in the Alliance and wait it out."

"Both sound pretty dangerous."

"Exactly. We board the wrong ship and we could get end up slaves on some batarian backwater; we talk to the wrong people and any ship we do get just ends up being shot down again; or we hole up in unfamiliar territory, and whoever shot us down the first time comes in and takes us out."

Perez smiled, and against all reason it seemed genuine.

"'Always Outnumbered, Never Outgunned.'"

"What's that?"

"Oh, nothing. Just a piece of Classic Music. So tell me Commander, is there a Mrs Commander Anderson?"

Anderson turned to her and laughed, missing a low hanging branch as he did and smacking his helmet off it.

"Ow." He muttered, "That's rather direct of you, Lieutenant. I'm not sure now's the time though." Anderson grinned broadly at Perez.

"Oh no, no, I didn't mean to… Oh" Perez caught Anderson's expression as she turned and stopped mid sentence, her cheeks flushing even brighter pink as she at last picked up on the jocular tone in the commander's voice. "Sorry Commander, I was just making conversation. Keep the mood light, you know."

"I know, Perez. And no, there isn't. Not at the moment anyway. There was."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Anderson looked up, and saw Corporal Lacan turn back grin broadly while still proudly clutching the bulk of his light machine gun, evidently he'd been listening in. In return, the commander flashed him a salute using only a single finger, followed by a jerk of the thumb towards the rear of the formation; a silent order for the Gallic corporal to get back to the rearguard position.

"That's alright. I'd rather not talk about it with God-knows-who chasing us with guns though."

"Oh, of course. Sorry Commander."

"Stop apologising. Ask me again some time." Anderson said, a little more curtly than he intended, but confident that the comms officer had received his message intact. And with that, he jogged over a dense pile of an odd, circular alien leaves to check up on Serviceman First Class Rhys Carpenter, the engineer found unconscious in the mess. His leg pains were producing conspicuous grimaces with every step, and Anderson had finally decided they could spare a drop of medigel to keep him up to pace.

Gral'Avah's green skinned subordinate grunted as he dropped from the driver's seat of the rover, and he removed his pistol from the holster at his hip. Before him stood the crashed human frigate, its once sleek form now little more than a battered hulk, its hind quarters jutting out from the edge of the jungle, while most of the midsection squatted inelegantly on the rock formation that had caused the sudden termination of foliage. At least, what remained of the midsection. The entire starboard side was dominated by a gaping, blackened hole – the handiwork of the second missile. The batarian, known to the assembled teams by his rank of _Bartathah_, walked slowly towards the frigate's new opening, peering in as best he could from distance.

"We'll go in through there," he said in his deep baritone, pointing, "it should be a medbay if the humans are still building their frigates the same way. Var'Adani, move it up. Take first team and check it out; stay cautious. The humans could have rigged traps. Fali'Tash, Lena'Roth, you two are with me. We'll sweep the perimeter."

Tresh Var'Adani was a veteran of the batarian armed forces, who had resigned his commission shortly after his people's secession from Council Space. Nonetheless, he had seen more than his share of combat during his eight year service. Some of it had been against humans, terrorists, mercenaries and soldiers alike. Much of it had been against a large consortium of asari pirates that had refused to leave batarian interests alone, and one or two tours had pitted him against all manner of hostile beings and creatures in the lawless Terminus Systems his people had been unceremoniously dumped into.

He was a capable soldier, gifted some said; but his choice of career, prestigious though it had been, had left him with precious little standing in batarian society. He had no honorific trade titles, no impressive dwelling as an ostentatious badge of honour and none of the mercantile or noble dignity that could have been awarded his family. Embittered, his retirement from the military had left him with nowhere to go. Bitterness had become resentment, and that in turn had developed until a constant, dull hatred in the back of his mind for the humans that had robbed his people of their pride, and cost him his own honour. Gral'Avah's offer had been a generous one: the chance to deliver vengeance on the humans without restraint, and with a paycheque half as large again as his military wage.

His hate had kept him focused, and his focus at left him fit and physically lethal while retaining a sharp mind. Var'Adani was not stupid; he was well trained and experienced. As he lead his five man squad through the jagged breach in the starship's side, it was with slow, steady footsteps and a raised rifle that constantly tracked left and right, his four eyes searching for even a faint sign of resistance or a trap. He said nothing, relying on well drilled hand signals to communicate with the others behind him.

Almost immediately, he was confronted with a body. A human female, half buried by destroyed equipment, long brown hair matted with blood. She was almost certainly dead, but the humans were notorious tricksters and Var'Adani wasted no time in gesturing for a subordinate to check the body. The warrior behind did not even bother checking for a pulse, he merely thrust a short, stubby blade into the woman's neck. There was no response, save for a dribble of thick red blood. The warrior nodded, and Var'Adani continued on, peering through the gloom.

Meanwhile, the _Bartathah_ and the two soldiers he had selected prowled about the ship's exterior, searching through the failing light. The clouds above rumbled, and the greenskin momentarily looked upward, feeling the first drop of rain splash gently on the bony ridge between his eyes.

"Storm's about to hit," Selev Fali'Tash said, rather unnecessarily. The _bartathah_ merely nodded an affirmative, his grip unconsciously tightening on his rifle. It was becoming increasingly clear that the humans had moved on, despite the scattering of shallow entrenchments that dotted the clearing's edge, and that left only one direction in which they could have gone.

"We'll check out the jungle," he said abruptly, peering with keen eyesight into the treeline, "looks like there's a small clearing beyond the first couple of trees. Lena'Roth, take point."

"Yes, sir. Moving up."

On board the ravaged _El Alamein_, Var'Adani and his team had cleared the stairs leading up to the bridge, stepping over the body of bridge security detail Serviceman Third Class James Murphy as they did so, his youthful, once fresh-faced features now mottled by caked on blood. Two of the batarians positioned themselves either side of the door, weapons raised, and Var'Adani threw the switch.

The team moved in quickly and quietly, immediately 'checking' the two bodies at the rear of the bridge in the same manner as had befallen Linda Rosberg. Through the eerie stillness, Var'Adani heard a sharp intake of breath.

"We've got a live one," he said menacingly, "check it." The veteran followed close behind his subordinate as he advanced on the slumped figure just aft of the flight control station. "Well, what have we here?" He asked with a pointed smile as he recognised the markings on the human's uniform, they had hit the hostage jackpot.

"The last man you'll ever prey on!" Stefan Wagner managed to draw out a defiant bark from some reserve deep within. He raised his right arm, and with it the pistol that Anderson had given him. He fired a single round that went directly through the lead batarian's ridged forehead, toppling him backwards instantly.

Before Var'Adani had even a second to react, the Captain thumbed the activation switch on the grenade clutched tightly in his left hand. That single grenade obliterated human and batarian alike, while the chain reaction it ignited in the other grenades scattered about the bridge delivered an equally swift and sudden end to the three remaining batarians. And Captain Wagner had finally gone down with his beloved ship.

Outside, the _bartathah_ heard a thunderous boom, far louder than the rumble of thunder that had echoed across the sky only minutes ago. He whirled round, and was confronted with a column of fire and smoke towering from the forward part of the fallen ship, a pyre to the fallen.

"Grargh! I told that _hrakhor_ to be careful!" He bellowed, eyes flashing with anger. He thumbed a switch on his omni-tool and raised his wrist, enveloped in an orange glow, to his mouth. "Var'Adani! Do you read? Var'Adani, are you there? Respond!" He gnashed his teeth together and shifted recipient. "Krar'Imagna, report!"

"The ship just blew!" The bewildered batarian spluttered superficially into his radio, followed by hacking cough. "Var'Adani was still inside, we were checking the rear exterior. Blast knocked me off my feet, sir. Must have been a trap."

"Indeed," the _bartathah_ growled, "bring the others and meet me in the clearing just beyond the treeline. The humans were here, and there's only one way they could have gone. Make yourselves ready for a hunt!"

Deep in the twisting jungle, Anderson had just finished taking a swig of water reclaimed from a small stream when a distant rumbling carried its way across the bedraggled humans, the echo of a sharp crack conveyed at its heart.

"Storm's closing in." Lieutenant Jones unknowingly echoed the words of his batarian pursuers, his eyes cast upwards at the black clouds just visible past the dominant leafy canopy.

"No, that was something else." Gunnery Sergeant Gregor Murray replied sadly. Anderson nodded.

"That was the _Alamein_. They got there quicker than I'd hoped."

"So Captain Wagner…?" Monica Perez trailed off, her face pale. This time, the commander merely shook his head slowly.

"He did us proud." Lacan said simply from the rear of the formation. A few metres ahead of Anderson, and in step with Corporal Sarah Townsend, Ensign Bramble wiped a single, irrepressible tear from her eyes as her pace slackened.

"I don't mean to be negative, sir, but if they got there in less than three hours… Well it means one of two things." Sergeant Bowman called over, the still dazed face of the unusually silent Dieter Bloch popping into view right behind him.

"Agreed." Anderson said worriedly. "Either they've got vehicles, or they were a hell of a lot closer than we thought, even assuming they didn't bother with a thorough recon before boarding the ship. Neither option puts us much distance away from them."

"Orders?" Kirilenko queried.

"We keep moving," the commander sighed, "Sato's setting a good pace, this just means we don't have the time to stop." There was a chorus of barely suppressed groans among the Navy personnel, and a smattering of nods and 'ayes' from the marines. Ignoring the brief pangs in his stomach, and the increasingly uncomfortable heat in his upper legs, David Anderson pressed on through the enmeshing jungle, his face as unwavering in its set determination as his grip on his rifle was unfailing.

"And this report is entirely accurate?" The orange holographic avatar of the _Drelha_ asked, a curious glint in his eyes.

"Yes, sir." Gral'Avah replied, his chest momentarily swelling with pride. Here it came at last, some measure of recognition for his quick thinking. Not that Perrin required the edification, of course. He was a professional, not some tame varren begging for scraps from its cold, unfeeling master.

"You force me to ask the question, _Haikr_: is this an unprecedented act of stupidity, or should I learn to expect more unconscionable buffoonery from you?" There was no malice in the _Drelha_'s tone, no audible cues of anger, but even through the hazy orange hued projection, his eyes blazed like miniature suns. The elder batarian's wrath was made all the more potent for its latency, and Gral'Avah's tongue momentarily failed him. He spluttered, his face contorted in shock.

"I.. I'm sorry?"

"You had better be, Perrin," the _Drelha_ stated coldly, the use of the forename so fearful in it's unexpected intimacy, "you know too well the price I place on failure, and what I demand in trade."

"I don't understand, sir. In what way did I fail you?" Gral'Avah almost shouted, the terror brought on by the implicit threat finally shaking him from his numbness.

"Because you succumbed to that sin so common to people of your level, Gral'Avah, you did not think!" The last four syllables were delivered slowly, the briefest of pauses between them. Perrin said nothing, his face merely conveying a continued sense of incomprehension. "How often do the Systems Alliance come to Morpai, _Haikr_? They don't. Not ever. So was it so great a leap to assume this ship might have been associated with our current objective?"

"I considered the possibility," Perrin glared defensively, "whether they were an escort party conducting an advanced reconnaissance, or an assault team that had somehow caught whiff of our plans, I deemed it best to keep them on Morpai."

"And you never thought that this could be the ship? That the lone human vessel in range of where we knew the meeting to be held could in fact be our target?" Gral'Avah merely spluttered again. The thought that he had unconsciously destroyed his target prematurely was inconceivable.

"I did not." He said simply. "Why would they bring their diplomat here, why place him in harm's way?"

"You knew why!" The _Drelha_ thundered, making no attempt to conceal his rage this time. "It's here, in your report! You received a communication telling you they were purchasing arms."

"And that was what lead me to believe they were unrelated to our target," Gral'Avah countered, he was growing angry himself, "why would an Alliance protection team need weapons from a shady merchant? When they had been tasked to escort a priority diplomat, why would they not already be equipped? I assumed they were part of some investigation or tracing some stolen arms. I decided I could not risk them stumbling upon our operation in the course of this investigation, and so I made sure they were not a threat."

The _Drelha_ seemed to calm slightly after this. In truth, he had been just as unprepared for the _El Alamein_'s arrival on Morpai as his subordinate. And that Perrin was not privy to the same intelligence sources as him was entirely his own doing. That did not change the fact that Gral'Avah had acted rashly, nor did it change the fact that his carefully laid plans were on the verge of ruin.

"Find him, _Haikr_." He ordered. "Find this Dieter Bloch, and pray he is still alive. Bring him to the main base, along with a number of the crew. Command staff. Any soldiers you encounter are disposable."

"I have a team tracking them as we speak, sir."

"Good. Tell them I want the diplomat alive. Use the chopper."

"_Drelha_, there is a storm, we can't use the chopper for fear of-"

"Rain, Gral'Avah? Are you deliberately testing me?" He roared, his anger piqued once again. "Squeeze your idiotic head into that cockpit, get in the sky and _personally_ bring the human to me! Now!"

The _Drelha_ cut the transmission at his end, and Gral'Avah stormed out of the communication tent, his temper mirroring the claps of thunder echoing overhead. It was time to channel this overarching anger all the way down the chain of command. Somewhere, someone was about to regret ever being born. A tiny part of Gral'Avah's brain flashed a measure of surprise that he hoped it was the greenskin above the humans, but he ignored it. Just as he always did.

The rain had come swift, and it had come hard. Managing to ignore the bizarre memories of Basic Training that particular analogy had brought on, Anderson had steered the survivors into a rocky outcropping that provided some degree of shelter. The alcove of a tall rock face, carved by some ancient stream or river that had long since been soaked up by the mass of trees provided a bay of dryness, albeit a narrow one. The opportunity for rest had been lapped up by most of the crew, and the unwrapping of several ration packs had been greeted with even more enthusiasm. The marines stood in somewhat darker moods, they knew that a little rain and lightning was not going to stop a group of determined killers, not this deep into the jungle.

On the northern edge of the outcropping, Vincent Lacan lay nearly motionless under a small drysheet, his hands set firmly on his machine gun, its unfolded bipod perched on a low rock. Where the alcove curved east at its southern end, Sarah Townsend and Sato Takama were in similar positions, the former clutching one of the Ariake marksman rifles snugly into her shoulder while the latter remained focused on a thermal imager.

Anderson had found some amusement in that particular pairing as a sniper team, given they shared their initials not only with each other, but with their role. _The curious hand of fate at work once again_, he mused as he bit into a chocolate covered protein roll. If he chewed quickly, it was almost like a small cake. The three replacements for the on duty marines were sleeping, as only experience and training allowed one to do under such circumstances. The commander remained worried about an attack from the west, the open side of the alcove, but hoped that the thick tree growth and the ditch left by the same body of water that had shaped their encampment would provide passable protection. As a final precaution, he dropped two of the few proximity mines they possessed just beyond the ditch.

Finally satisfied, he slumped down next to Monica Perez, who was making use of the down time to apply a tiny drop of medigel onto the bruise above her eye. Such a thin coating would only do so much, but it would at least alleviate some of the pain.

"I'm sorry you can't have more, but we have to stay prepared."

I understand completely, Commander." She smiled. "It's only a bruise, I've had worse."

"Oh?" Anderson said casually.

"Well, the usual. You know, broken ankle from going it over playing hockey. Broken rib during Basic. A couple of burns from various misadventures in the kitchen."

"Not a cook?"

"Oh no, I'm a great cook. I just said misadventures in the kitchen, never said anything about cooking." Perez winked slyly and Anderson laughed. He looked up as Ensign Bramble bounced over, a canteen held gingerly with both hands.

"Here you go, ma'am, brought you some soup. It's only dried stuff, but its warm and it should taste better than all the other… well, all the other dried stuff we're eating." Bramble said wistfully.

"Thanks." Perez replied, gratefully taking the canteen.

"Careful, it's hot. No Thermos." Bramble shrugged. "Anything I can get for you, Commander?"

"I'm alright, Lydia. But I think Serviceman Carpenter over there could use some company. Take his mind off that leg of his."

"Aye sir." Bramble nodded slowly, apparently catching the underlying message that 'leg' was merely a metaphor for Carpenter's fellow engineers who had not been as lucky as him. The same was true of Chief Engineer Shauna Roberts, who was sat in numb silence with Jonathon Carter, one having lost the men she had been responsible for, and the other having lost a superior and a mentor. Gordon Bowman was chatting with Gregor Murray, faint strains of overhead conversation reminding Anderson of the friendly rivalry that still persisted between the two men's respective nations, particularly on the sports field. A typical marine practice, mutual light digs to keep the mind away from darker things.

"So Commander," Perez began a little hesitantly, "you mentioned there was a Mrs Anderson?" David chuckled.

"You don't let up, do you?" he said lightly. "Yeah, I was married once. It's not something I talk about much; feels like a long time ago now. Another life almost."

"What was her name?"

"Cynthia." The single uttered word was devoid of any emotion. There was no longer any hurt there, nor was there any fondness. "We met while I was in The Program." He continued, referring to the N7 training course. "She was working part time at a bar to help pay for her studies at university. We hit it off and things just… developed."

"What happened?"

"This." Anderson stated plainly. "This job. We started to feel the strain by the time the First Contact War ended. We struggled on for seven more years, but it just didn't feel the same. Messy divorce process, a couple more failed relationships and here I am." Again, the Commander's voice was almost cold in its stoic delivery of the facts. Clinical. "I wish I could say it affected me, but it just didn't. By the time the divorce finally came through, I was already over it. Guess that was probably part of the problem."

"So there hasn't been anyone since?"

"Not really." Anderson replied, surprised he was able to talk so openly about this. While no once could consider him sullen or unfriendly, he was usually so much more guarded when it came to his personal life. "I met one woman I… clicked with. It was on a mission that's become so classified I'm not sure I could even tell you her name."  
"So why didn't that work out?" Perez asked, a little more eagerly than Anderson would have anticipated.

"The same reason. Careers. Only this time it was mutual; she was leaving for some classified assignment. I don't know where she is or what she's been doing to this day." Anderson's eyes dropped slightly, shifting their focus to a moss covered stone a foot away. He had let a note of sadness, of regret, creep into his voice and the surprise he felt at saying this so easily resonated all the clearer, magnified by his incomprehensible lack of control.

"Do you miss her?"

"I did. Life moves on too quickly for that to linger too long though." Perez nodded. She said nothing for a long while, her eyes tracing across the dejected, slumped forms of her crewmates. "Why all the questions?"

"Honestly?" Perez turned to stare at Anderson, her eyes wide. "This all feels so… hopeless. We're in a hostile jungle, on a hostile world with no rescue coming and God only knows what following us." She said softly, careful not to let her voice carry over to the rest of the crew. "I know you're doing all you can, but… I don't know, I guess I just don't see us making it home." She murmured morosely. "I wanted to get to know you a little better before we… before I…"

"Stop right there, Monica." Anderson interjected. "I've been in far worse situations than this and I've seen what a group of people can accomplish with a bit of teamwork and the right amount of optimism. You see those marines out there? They're going to make sure we all get to that spaceport, they're going to keep us all alive while the Alliance sends us a ship, and they're going to make sure we all get out of here still breathing. That's their job, and I know for a fact that they're very good at it. Now is this the last bellyaching I'm going to hear from you? Are you still with me?"

"Yes, sir." Monica choked, "Sorry, sir." Her voice was calmer now, renewed volume giving it clarity.

"And if they don't get you through," Anderson said, a genuine smile now adorning his face, "I will. Personally. I promise you that."

"Thanks, Commander. I… I appreciate you being here." Monica smiled back. Beyond their natural canopy, the rain continued to hammer on the wide-leafed foliage, while a dirty trickle formed in the ditch – a faint spectre of the mighty flow of water that had carved it. A brief, intense flash lit the tree line and the accompanying crack of thunder followed barely more than a second later. The storm was closing, and Anderson was growing increasingly concerned. Between the rain and the tumultuous thunder above, spotting and hearing an approaching enemy was becoming more and more difficult. He knew the crew had to get moving soon, regardless of the weather. The order would make him unpopular, but the commander felt losing more people to an ambush would lose him even more friends.

"We're going to have move soon." He said softly to Monica. "It's not going to be much fun, but we're in more danger every minute we wait. The storm might even help us hide once we get going." Perez nodded.

"I understand." She said glumly. No one liked getting wet, but a little rain was a lot more painless than a hail of gunfire. "I'll start getting people ready. The longer they have to get their things together, the less they might groan." She added hopefully. Anderson nodded, stretching some of the stiffness out of his back and arms as he stood. He looked over at the sniper team huddled on the floor; at least someone would appreciate the order to resume walking.

The chopper rocked as it was buffeted by yet another gust of wind. Though not a fully fledged contra-grav flyer, the gunship nevertheless used a small mass lowering field to ease the load on its combination propulsion system. On either end of two stubby wings protruding from the sides of the narrow hulled craft sat two engine nacelles consisting of a lift and manoeuvring jet on the bottom and a slightly offset truncated rotor on the top. The mass effect field allowed the chopper to get away with significantly less fuel drain and the small rotors, minimising an otherwise glaring structural weakness; furthermore, the field allowed the aircraft to be speedy and nimble, while fielding armaments and troop capacity that were impressive for its size.

Unfortunately, the reduced mass made the chopper highly susceptible to external forces. Nueta'Thah's Second Law of motion was just as valid today as it had been when first postulated nearly a thousand years ago, a fact that Gral'Avah held little appreciation for suspended as he was in what felt like an aerial whirlpool. Beside him, the pilot grunted as he readjusted course once again.

"This really isn't getting easier," he griped, "especially not getting closer to the lightning. As if the wind wasn't bad enough, we may soon by electrocuted."

"Don't be an idiot." Gral'Avah retorted. "We're safer inside here than we would be on the jungle floor." Perrin's words sounded hollow even to him. He had never studied physics in any great detail, and the words of another who professed – rather arrogantly it had seemed to the _Haikr_ – greater intellect than his were small comfort indeed. The pilot merely shrugged at this and went back to gazing intently at his instruments.

At least they were dry in the cockpit, Gral'Avah conceded. Unlike the two grunts he had manning the repeater cannons mounted on either side of the small troop bay behind him. The doors than ran down the gunship's flanks were open, ostensibly so that the two gunners could spot for targets. In truth, the _Haikr_ doubted they would see much through the seething rain; but they could at least serve as lightning rods – anything that struck them wasn't striking him. At least in theory.

The cannons were mean looking weapons. Scaled down versions of the main cannon in the chopper's nose, they were comprised of a long, heavy barrel on a swivel mount with a bulging ammunition feed just forward of the holographic sighting readouts. The ammo feed used long slabs of tungsten a few centimetres in width, slotted into the breech at four equidistant points around the circumference. The chamber would use a high powered laser to slice a pointed sliver out of the top mounted block, perpendicular to the block's longest axis. The resultant round, now as long as the width of the source block was passed through and magnetically accelerated through a mass effect field to extreme velocities. As the block dropped to realign itself with the cutting laser, the ammunition feed spun to slot the next block into place, faster than the first could be passed down. The speed the feed spun at was sufficient to give the cannon a rate of fire approaching eight thousand rounds per minute. Given the size of the slug, and the speed at which the mass effect fields allowed it to be fired, the cannon was a ferocious tool of war – and the main gun on the nose was half as big again.

The two gunners stood stoically behind their mounts. Though the rain may have lashed at them, and the wind that permeated the small troop bay was chilling, they were able to draw satisfaction from the knowledge the fearsome weapons before them were about to see some use.

"There," the pilot barked at Gral'Avah, his finger gesturing towards one of the readouts in the centre console, "heat spike."

"I see it," Perrin replied, "doesn't look like wildlife either. Pattern's too regular."

"Could be our guys." The pilot offered. Gral'Avah nodded.

"Alpha team, this is Thundercloud One," he said into the radio mounted to his left, "do you read?"

"Alpha team copies, Thundercloud One." A batarian voice crackled over the radio. The greenskin, Perrin acknowledged, at least he sounded unhappy."

"Alpha team, mark position with IR strobe; over."

"Acknowledged, strobe on." A few seconds later, one of the thermal blips on the screen intensified and started flashing.

"Position confirmed, Alpha team." Perrin answered. "Confirm unit strength."

"Ten, sir. Brought the whole team as requested."

"Acknowledged." Gral'Avah said glumly; the spikes they had picked up were the assault team, not the humans. Still, at least they could keep track of the team now. "Record those signatures." Gral'Avah ordered the pilot. "Assign green IFF."

"Done." The pilot answered, and the spikes on the screen began flashing green.

"Alpha team, Thundercloud. Maintain current bearing and await further position orders. We'll find them."

"Alpha team copies all," the radio crackled again, "out."

"Bring us back round," Gral'Avah ordered as the pilot completed pulling the chopper through its sweep, "I'll watch the thermal cam, you keep this thing in the air."

"Yes, sir." The chopper moaned softly as the rotors strained against the wind, a push from the jets helping them through. The jungle canopy flew beneath them, illuminated by the occasional, brief flare of lightning. Ahead of them, Gral'Avah could see the bank of thick, mauve clouds discharging between themselves every now and again; sometimes a mere flash, at other times the dazzling sight of a lightning fork. The Thundercloud designation for the chopper had been the obvious one, but only because it fit so well. Just as he stood witness to the full fury of nature, so too were the humans about to witness batarian rage incarnate, facilitated by the cold, emotionless killer his people had designed and built. The aircraft he sat in was ultimately inspired by nature, but refined by batarian ingenuity in every way. It was a perfect killing machine.

"There! _Strakh_, they're close." Gral'Avah's excitement rose as he saw another row of blips flash up on the monitor. "Alpha team, Thundercloud One. Hostile location confirmed, approximately two hundred metres to your south-west. There's a slight gap in the trees, looks like you'll have a small trench to cross. Prepare accordingly."

"Alpha team copies all, we're on the move."

"Spin them up!" The _Haikr_ called back to the two gunners as the chopper flew over the human encampment. "Get some distance, let alpha close then pull round for support." This was to the pilot, who promptly acknowledged. Gral'Avah was a little disappointed he would be limited to a supporting role, but the _Drelha_ had been most insistent they take the diplomat alive. An all out massacre was not an available option. Still, between the two guns on the flanks, and his control of the variable attitude cannon on the nose, he would at least get some of the kills he craved.

"That was close." Monica Perez noted as she finished helping Ensign Bramble pack away the last of the heating units. "It's a childish fear I know, but the thought of getting struck by lightning is getting more and more frequent." Anderson merely nodded slowly. The last one had been loud, sure, but too long after the flash; too drawn out as well. It had been almost whining, almost like…

"That wasn't lightning," the commander rasped, colour draining from his cheeks as he reached for his assault rifle, "that was an aircraft." _And if they're looking for us from the air, that can only mean they have a ground team._ Anderson sprinted towards the sniper team just in time to hear Sato Takama's shout echo through his helmet radio.

"Contact! Multiple thermal spikes."

"I see them." Sarah Townsend followed. "Contact front! Approximately one hundred metres, just clearing the treeline. Multiple hostiles. Batarians. Automatic rifles."

"Open fire!" Anderson ordered, and was immediately answered by the booming report of Townsend's recently acquired marksman rifle.

"They have kinetic barriers." She reported, the tone of her voice indicating the shot had not inflicted a casualty.

"Target acquired." Lacan muttered into his mic. The staccato report of his squad automatic echoed through the small clearing before Anderson had time to give the order.

"Bowman, get Bloch and the others moving."

"Aye, sir." A few screams had sounded from some of the non-combat personnel.

"Unit strength?" Anderson queried.

"Still unknown. Six plus." Takama provided the reply.

"Lay down suppressing fire. Kirilenko, you're on point: watch for a pincer movement, so long as they're concentrated at our rear we keep moving. Murray, train that rifle of yours on those hostiles.

"Aye, sir."

"Acknowledged."

The jungle around the small ditch erupted in gunfire as the batarians returned fire. Anderson himself ran towards Perez and Bramble, physically hurling them forwards and pushing them to get running, his rifle raised and scanning for an ambush.

"Tango down." Townsend stated calmly, claiming the unit's first kill. A loud crump resonated across the rockface as one of the proximity mines detonated.

"Tango down," Takama confirmed, "Commander gets a kill."

"Kinetic barriers hit. Holding." Lacan shouted curtly. "Hostile barriers insufficient." He added a moment later.

"Murray confirms kill in Lacan's sector." Gregor Murray reported with mirth lacing his Scottish burr.

"I'm hit, moving to better cover. Barriers recharging." Townsend said, as Anderson moved as fast as caution would allow.

"Rearguard, assessment?" he asked on the fly.

"We can hold, sir," Takama replied, around bursts from his assault rifle "terrain is to our advantage." He shouted over the detonation of another proximity mine.

"Good. Prepare to fall back at a moment's notice. We don't want to get too strung out."

"You!" the greenskin roared at one of the batarians to his right, "focus fire on that sniper. Ignore him, he's dead."

The subordinate, Selev Fali'tash nodded, stepping back from the body of the first batarian to fall and spraying the general area where the sniper fire had come from with a continuous stream from his assault rifle. The batarian dived behind a tree as he let the rifle cool a little, before popping back round and firing until the weapon overheated. This time, he let himself take a little more time to aim, and he could just see the helmet of the sniper. He saw the blue flash of kinetic barriers as they deflected rounds, saw them collapse and cursed his bleeping, useless weapon as the sniper picked themselves up and sprinted for cover.

He slid back behind the tree and paused to let the rifle cool.

"Good." The greenskin barked at him. "He's falling back. Shift fire to the machine gun emplacement." Fali'Tash sighed to himself. First a sniper with lethal accuracy to deal with, and now an unrelenting hail of hostile rounds. _All in a _hrakhing_ days work_, he supposed, shrugging as he rounded the tree and opened fire, this time on the other side of the brief clearing.

"Lena'Roth! Hold! Don't move…" the _bartathah_ bellowed, a moment too late. The point man whirled round, his expression a mask of confusion, just as the proximity mine detonated. "_Strakh_!" He roared. "The humans are trying to hold their ground. Pull back a little, let the _Haikr _soften them up.

Between the gunfire, and the clapping of thunder, Anderson heard the screaming above grow louder. The chopper was on its way back. Lacking a visual of the aircraft, the commander could make no guesses as to its armaments, and that troubled him. For all he knew, he could order a retreat into the jungle only to be annihilated by heat seeking rockets; the squad could be gunned down making a stand in the clearing, or it could simply be an overwatch bird susceptible to a well placed sniper round.

It was to be a gamble then. To Anderson, the safest option would appear to be found in cover. If he could buy some time and distance, they could perhaps work out a counter attack plan for when they inevitably emerged from the thick foliage.

"Rearguard, fall back. Chopper incoming."

"Affirmative, sir." Takama replied through gritted teeth. "Blowing remaining charges. Fire in the hole!" A distinct _crump_ resonated through the jungle as the last of the explosives detonated. Anderson understood Takama's thinking, the combination of smoke and soil particles blasted upward might provide a screen sufficient to obscure their pursuers vision as they made their retreat; and maybe even taking out another one or two if they were lucky.

Anderson yearned to go back and provide cover, but he knew that was impossible. He was responsible for the unarmed crew members: they were his priority. He may not have liked it, but the men at the rearguard were doing the job they had signed up for, danger included. Now was the time to trust in their training and their ability.

The jets whined as the pilot steadied the gunship, and Gral'Avah cast his eyes to the main gun's targeting screen. He pushed the control stick forward, depressing the gun into its lowest elevation. The pilot had lined the aircraft up well, the thermal imager was pinging four targets in prime position, their rocky cover providing minimal protection to an attack from above.

The _haikr_ squeezed the trigger, sending a stream of oversized projectile tearing through the foliage, sending up sprays of dirt big enough to be seen even from the chopper's lofty position. The hail of slugs raked across the nearest target, the speed of the chopper giving Gral'Avah little time to raise the cannon slightly before the next enemy flashed across the crosshairs. He kept his finger tight on the trigger for the entirety of the brief few seconds it took for the chopper to pass over the line of enemies, expending hundreds of rounds during the short flyby.

Behind him, the left gunner was firing a few short bursts from his own cannon, a largely ineffective gesture given the gun's insufficient depression, but a powerful psychological image nonetheless.

"Bring us round for another pass," Gral'Avah ordered the pilot, "bear left a bit, more in the middle of the clearing. Take it slow, we'll give our gunners some time to finish them off as we pass."

"Understood, sir."

"_Merde_!" Lacan swore across the radio, "barriers down. I took maybe two hits. She's a loud brute that gun. Like my first girlfriend."

"Commander, this is Murray. I took some rounds too, barriers down and charging. Scraped some armour of my thigh as well, it's a big gouge."

"It's coming back around," Townsend shouted, "get to cover! Now! Go go!"

With a hefty grunt, Lacan pulled himself up and began to backpedal towards the relative safety of the thick jungle behind him. Keeping one hand on the grip of his machine gun, he continued firing in short bursts as he moved. Even in the modern age of 'frictionless' firing chambers and mass effect fields, the recoil shuddered along his arm, his muscles aching after only a few steps. His chances of hitting anything were minimal, but he couldn't see anything beyond the rapidly diminishing smoke anyway. So long as he was keeping his pursuers' heads down, it didn't matter.

He pulled a grenade from a pouch on his belt.

"This is for you, Leonelle," he whispered to it, "and I'm sorry I said you were turning into your mother. You were already pretty much there, you overbearing shrew." He primed it and hurled it into the smoke, smiling at the satisfying bang that followed. He was rewarded a few moments later by a distinctly batarian scream piercing through the fading gunfire. "I sympathise, _ami_, the times I wish I could have yelled like that sometimes…" Lacan turned finally as he brushed through a low bush, his eyes catching Gregor Murray running the same way, his gait a little awkward, favouring one leg.

"Commander, Lacan. Falling back now. Eyes on Murray. Will RV and catch up soon." Lacan tapped his radio off and jogged to catch up with the Scotsman. "Murray, friendly on your six."

"Good to see you, lad." The Gunnery Sergeant winced slightly as he turned to face him. "Any visual on that chopper?" Lacan shook his head. "Well, it shouldn't be able to penetrate this far into…" Murray was cut off as stuttering gunfire whipped past them. "Bollocks! Get down!" Just above the din of slugs whizzing through the air and cracking into trees, the two men could hear the ominous whine of and stuttering growl of rotary repeater cannon. "Looks like the chopper's dropped down," Murray bellowed, "I caught sight of two side gunners, must be one of them!"

"So our friend is unprotected?" Lacan asked, not waiting for a reply before returning fire from his prone position, dimly conscious of the slugs zipping past his face. The Gallic Corporal kept his finger on the trigger until his squad auto coughed and seized up, a flashing red light and beeping warning him the weapon had overheated. Steam rose along the length of the barrel, as the heat radiated from it evaporated the rain falling on it. But as Lacan relaxed his finger, he was rewarded by relative quiet. Their opposition had also ceased fire.

"Move!" Murray barked, and the two soldiers picked themselves up and ran.

Off to their right, Sarah Townsend had dragged Sato Takama up and was leading him through a tangle of trees collapsed by heavy fire from the chopper's main gun. Her sniper rifle was collapsed and snug against her back, while Takama briefly adjusted his stride every few steps to fire indiscriminately behind him with his sidearm, his assault rifle too big and awkward to fire without looking.

"Commander, Townsend. We have your position tagged and are making our way to you. Keep moving, some of those hunters are still on their feet."

"Acknowledged, no sign of that chopper on our end yet."

"_Strakh_, that stings." The leftmost batarian gunner moaned as he collapsed to the floor of the troop bay, clutching his forearm.

"You alright?" The other gunner asked, casting his head back.

"Yeah… just… grazed." The first said through gritted, pointed teeth. "_Hrakhors_!" He shouted in the general direction of the retreating humans.

"What's happening back there?" Gral'Avah queried from the cockpit.

"The humans returned fire, got a couple of holes on the left side, a few more dents and Dern'Alzoo took a hit on the arm."

"One of the bearings took a hit too," Dern'Alzoo added from his slumped position on the deck, "gun doesn't turn left too well anymore. Like my left arm."

"Suck it up!" Gral'Avah barked back. "We're going after them, and I need those guns spinning."

"Jungle's thick, _Haikr_," the pilot said softly, "we'd have to use thermal cams exclusively, there'd be a heavy risk of hitting the diplomat." Gral'Avah hissed through bared teeth. Though it pained him to concede tactical accuracy to an underling, he could not ignore the warning. The _Drelha_ would have his head if that diplomat were to die at his hands.

"Then we plan an ambush. The humans can only have one destination, and sooner or later they'll hit the plains. We'll pick them off one by one in open territory. Get the ground team on the radio, we'll pick them up and get them dug in." The batarian turned his head back to the troop bay and raised his voice. "You've lucked out, Dern'Alzoo, you've got time to patch yourself up," Perrin's tone hardened, "but do try not to get shot again today."

The gunner merely nodded as he began dressing his wound from a small medkit affixed to a bulkhead. The chopper descended, nestling itself astride the ditch, the bloodied corpse of one of the batarian hunters scant few metres away from the gunner, water streaming off it as the rain continued to pound down. Dern'Alzoo could not contain a shudder as he stared into the still open eyes, a momentary fear gripping his heart. How the hell had his day turned into this?

Anderson waited a full five minutes after hearing from Murray before finally coming to a welcome halt. Around him, the ashen faces of scared crewmates cast concerned glances his way, while others slumped in heaps on the jungle floor, panting. Dieter Bloch had stooped to retch, a thick string of mucus still dangling from parted lips, his eyes unfocused. At the commander's orders, Gordon Bowman administered him some medication – they could no longer cope with anyone being less than fully conscious.

A little further back, Rhys Carpenter was hardly in better shape. Medigel had taken away much of the aching in his leg, but it could do little for the stiffness in the muscle and the protracted run from the encampment had been gruelling. The engineer had collapsed to the ground as soon as Anderson had pulled up, and the look of anguish on his face was yet to subside.

"Painkillers." Anderson said simply, gesturing at the stricken man. Above the muted murmurings of the crew, and the ever-present ambience of the jungle, he heard no signs of pursuit, no approaching violence and no ominous rotor beats. But playing this literally by ear was hardly the safest course. He directed Kirilenko and Ebadi to watch front and rear respectively, while he worked his way through the resting figures between, scanning around for any sign of danger and Bowman remained a silent guardian, watching over a rapidly recovering Bloch.

It was not long before the remaining marines caught up, though under the circumstances every minute weighed more heavily on Anderson's mind. A quick rest was all they required, and soon enough the entire surviving complement of the _El Alamein_ was on the move, though at a more comfortable, cautious pace. Assigning Bloch to Townsend, Anderson launched into discussion with Bowman, his senior NCO. They needed a plan for when they emerged from the protective encapsulation of the jungle, a means by which to cross the kilometre or so of open plain and reach the relative safety of the port.

The chopper had massively complicated matters, but the hunters – who Anderson now knew to be largely, if not entirely, batarian in composition – had tipped their hand too early. Anderson had never seen a vehicle like that in combat before, but specifications from some briefing long ago came to mind. He knew the capabilities of the aircraft, and the fact they had not simply been shelled by the explosive yield mass accelerator cannons on the wing struts told him that the batarians wanted more than the simple annihilation of the crew. Anderson may have been a career soldier, but he was an educated man. Nonetheless, his intelligence was unnecessary for adding two and two together. The only distinguishing aspect to his crew was the presence of an Alliance diplomat. For whatever reason, the batarians wanted him alive and were willing to sacrifice numerous personnel in ground warfare to identify and acquire him.

That told him they were safe from air attack so long as they were concealed by the jungle foliage. But the batarians' premature attack had revealed their strength, and Anderson was now able to prepare for a second encounter with the gunship. Moreover, it told him they would try to ambush them on the plains, and he now had an idea of hostile strength.

They may have been outnumbered and outmatched in terms of raw firepower, but he and Bowman had been trained for this. They had intel now, of a sort, and knowing your enemy made all the difference in the world – no matter what world that was.


	5. Chapter Four

**A/N: Finally managed to get the next chapter out, and once again, my intention to get things done quicker has failed. Attempts at doing a series of one shots haven't helped matters admittedly, but I'm still really enjoying writing this one so I'm determined to finish it. I just hope there's someone still enjoying reading it :-p.**

**As an aside, I borrowed and played Bad Company 2 since the last update. The main villain? A Russian named Arkady Kirilenko. I was a little taken aback when I heard that. Pure coincidence though, unless someone at Dice is reading my fanfic...Yeah the coincidence thing sounds more likely to me too...**

**Chapter Four**

By the time the trees began to thin, the rain had ceased and scant shards of sunlight pierced through the canopy, the storm's brevity both a rival to and a consequence of its intensity. The surviving crew of the _El Alamein_, hot, tired and in many cases, bruised, had pushed through the impeding foliage as quickly as they could, and had been seen no sign of pursuit. That a second encounter with those hounding them had not been forthcoming was of little comfort to Anderson, however, as it served only to solidify his suspicions that an ambush was awaiting them.

He and Bowman had agreed their best hope lay in a deadly game of leap frog; dividing the crew into two and attaching each half to a fire team. The gamble came with which team should escort Dieter Bloch, the primary asset in what had become an all too real tactical operation. Anderson was unsure whether the batarians would open fire as soon as the first humans broke the treeline, or if they would wait for all them to fall into their trap and eliminate them from the rear forward.

The compromise the two soldiers had devised was a bold one, to say the least. It put an inordinate amount of trust in Anderson's judgement that Bloch was required alive, and the commander felt his heart rate rise as the trees became more and more spaced out, despite the confidence his training should have given him. He tried to calm himself by thinking of Bowman, who was placing himself in the greatest danger without a word of discontent. The man really was made of stone.

Anderson felt the ground hardening beneath his boots as the crew worked their way up a gentle incline. It was their distance from available water that was responsible for the declining plant life, and he knew it couldn't be long until the jungle gave way altogether. It was time.

"Fireteam Alpha, front and centre!" He barked, and was swiftly met with the stern faces of Vincent Lacan and Sato Takama, the former drumming the fingers of his left hand on the foregrip of his machine gun while the latter absentmindedly flicked a switch on his omni-tool back and forth, assault rifle leaning on his shoulder. "You ready, marines?" The commander queried.

"Sir, ready and willing, sir." Takama replied proudly. Lacan merely nodded, a cocky hefting of his machine gun accompanying the gesture. Off to Anderson's left, Sergeant Bowman was equipping Dieter Bloch with his sidearm, giving the terrified looking diplomat a crash course on how and where to use the weapon.

"Right then," Anderson sighed, muscles tensing, "Let's get on with it. Jones, Bramble, Carter, Pietersen: you're with us. Roberts, Carpenter, Donovan and Perez, form up with Sergeant Murray. Ready weapons, marines." Anderson nodded at Gordon Bowman, who replied with a smile, and a light punch on Bloch's arm. Anderson lead his team on, the sight of the savannah finally before him, the outlying buildings of the port town visible above the swishing grass. He took a deep breath and readied his assault rifle. Putting all his faith, in his kinetic barriers, he began to run. The four petrified crewmen followed, almost blindly, their own faith in their Commander tested to the limit. Behind them, Lacan and Takama jogged along, weapons scanning left and right. There was nothing. No gunfire, no screaming gunship and no sign of movement.

Anderson continued running for two hundred metres or so before he pulled up, dropping into a crouch and training his assault rifle forward, ears listening out for the faintest hint of aerial assault. The crewmembers dropped low to the ground, Morgan Jones going as far as to go to prone, the long grass nearly concealing him. Lacan and Takama dropped into the same taut crouching stance as their Commander, ready to pounce at the slightest suggestion of movement, their weapons covering the stretch of ground between this most exposed of positions and the jungle.

It was time for the pivotal moment. Gordon Bowman and Dieter Bloch raced, alone, from the cover of the tree canopy, the Englishman's head on a swivel as his keen eyes routed out signs of danger. They were the bait. Perversely, Anderson desperately hoped for the sound of a gunshot, some sign that would give his enemy's position away, something Fireteam Bravo could leap out from the jungle from and destroy.

But again, there was nothing but the sound of the breeze dragging through the grass, the distant chatter of jungle birds. His options dwindling, Anderson gave the second team the go signal, and the last eight humans abandoned the last vestiges of safety. With the catastrophic timing the commander's inner pessimist had both dreaded and predicted, the whine of jet engines shattered the tense stillness.

The humans were as predictable as all of the rest of their brainless species, Gral'Avah noted with glee. Under the circumstances, their staggered departure from the jungle had been the most sensible option, but the batarian had expected it since first devising the ambush. Even if his fastest tracker had not been following the humans with an infrared imager, even if that data had not been transmitted and fed through the chopper's sophisticated positioning system, Gral'Avah would never have committed to the first group and given away his position to stragglers.

The storm had, in the end, worked to his advantage. As the clouds broke apart, the glare from the setting sun lanced through with still dazzling intensity, the perfect camouflage for his chopper, suspended in the air over a kilometre away from the human's desperate breakout. The lone runners had, admittedly been unexpected; the diplomat as obvious as he was vulnerable. Certainly, it had been tempted to drop in above this Dieter Bloch and allow his gunners to eliminate the humans left and right, but Gral'Avah was not willing to let overconfidence lead him into a trap.

As the last of the humans broke cover, Gral'Avah switched to the targeting display linked to the nose cannon and alerted the two gunners to prepare themselves, it was time to close the pincer. As the pilot opened up the throttle and set the chopper howling towards their target, Gral'Avah alerted his troops on the ground, his hands gripping the cannon's controls in violent excitement.

Anderson turned to meet the newly emerged threat, blinking in the sudden glare of sunlight. Squeezing off few futile rounds, he directed Takama and Lacan to ready themselves. The chopper roared as its main gun opened up, letting loose a deadly stream of projectiles. Gordon Bowman bodily hurled Bloch to the floor, before diving almost on top of him, shielding the diplomat as the bullets rained down, several deflecting off his kinetic barriers. The sergeant heard the terrifying clang of a round striking his back plating as a warning light flashed on his HUD, an unneeded indicator that his barriers had given out.

Bowman could not prevent himself wincing, a spasm of fear as the chopper passed overhead, expecting the final round to bury itself in his flesh and bring his life to an abrupt end. But no projectile found him. The chopper tore through the air above him, its flanking cannons growling as they poured suppressing fire on the two fireteams.

As the gunship pulled up violently and turned for a second pass, the batarian troops leapt up from concealed holes in the grass, adding their own fire to the fury. Anderson turned to face the latest threat, soaking up one or two rounds with his barriers as he dropped prone and returned fire, his third burst catching the closest batarian between the eyes, a spray of crimson spurting upward. Panting, Gordon Bowman completed his run towards his CO and once again hurled his diplomatic charge to the floor beside Morgan Jones. Switching places with Lacan, he trained his sniper rifle on the incoming chopper, while the Frenchman opened up on the incoming batarians, forcing them down and halting their advance.

Gral'Avah had to confess he was taken aback with the alacrity of the human reaction. The lone soldier guarding the diplomat had spirited Perrin's target out of the main gun's firing arc far quicker than predicted. Not that it mattered, the _Haikr_ decided with glee, as he now had the opening he needed to annihilate the lagging humans. The left mounted gun could work with the greenskin on the ground to keep the lead group pinned, a quick aerial pivot and his fearsome gun would sweep through those just leaving the jungle. He would leave none of them standing.

The chopper pulled back round, and Sato Takama locked a small tech mine into his omni-tool, a few stray rounds from the left turret burying themselves in the dry ground only metres away, as the ambitious gunner attempted to close the angle down. Stalling in between the two separated groups, the helicopter began to turn, fire from the left turret drawing closer and closer. Takama thumbed a switch, and was rewarded barely a second later with an explosion near the chopper's cockpit, the weapons faltering as a burst of static momentarily interfered with the aircraft's power systems,

The pilot was skilled, however, rocking the gunship forward and pulling away before it could absorb too much fire.

Keder Dern'Alzoo cursed as his weapon stuttered, the ammunition feed jerking as its rotation erratically switched direction. His holographic sights buzzed, and his trigger proved unresponsive. He had been so close, he had seen the flare of damaged kinetic barriers even as he had seen the bright discharge of a military omni-tool. He slammed a fist into his thigh as the chopper moved off, despite his gratitude that the humans had not been granted a sufficient window in which to return fire.

His gun settled as onboard countermeasures dealt with the electronic attack, and he settled his index fingers back on the triggers. The humans were passing by, but he still had time. He yanked hard to the right, determined to catch at least one of them in a last burst of fire. But the damaged bearing locked up, and the gun adamantly refused to pivot left. Dern'Alzoo began another string of curses, before a forceful blow to the left side of his abdomen knocked the breath from him. Feeling as though he had been punched by a krogan, he glanced down. A torrent of blood was rushing from an open wound, a cold stinging sensation growing in intensity. Dern'Alzoo gaped as he collapsed in shock, a hacking cough the only audible sound he could generate as his darkening eyes watched his elevated heart rate pumping gouts of blood from his body.

His head hit the deck, and the batarian sunk into cold darkness.

Bowman grimaced as he pulled his eye back from the scope of his sniper rifle. The chopper had pitched up slightly as he had squeezed the trigger, and his shot had passed through the target a little lower than he had intended. It may have been a slower death than he had intended, but a kill was still a kill, and he had neutralised a very dangerous threat.

"Tango down," he announced, "left gunner is taken out."

"Good work, Sarge." Anderson acknowledged between gritted teeth, a round pinging off his helmet and taking another chunk out of the barrier power meter projected on his visor.

"Second team's nearly here, sir." Takama remarked. "We need to push forward before that chopper swings back and takes us all out."

Lacan saw the head of his target perforated by a burst from his machine gun, turned and nodded at Takama. He gestured to his wrist, before swapping positions with the young Private. Takama understood the silent order, and slotted another tech mine into his omni-tool. Using a similar mechanism to the mine he had used on the chopper, the overload mine was designed to knock out kinetic barriers, if only temporarily. If a hail of machine gun fire was insufficient to keep their heads down, this at least stood a chance.

As he watched the second group nearing them, his peripheral vision noting the chopper was swinging round, Lacan saw Monica Perez stumble and fall. Making a snap decision, the corporal darted up, ignoring the round that impacted his back. He fired on the run, scattered rounds deflecting off the chopper's armour. Sarah Townsend had also noticed the fallen officer, and had dropped to a crouch, courageously readying her sniper rifle, despite the overwhelming odds she faced. Rounds from the chopper's main gun sent sprays of dirt flying as they struck the ground, the second team dropping low in a vain attempt to avoid them.

Still Lacan kept firing, high velocity projectiles clanging uselessly off the hull of the formidable gunship. A round from the main gun struck him in the chest, collapsing his kinetic barrier and knocking the Gallic Corporal to the ground. Wincing at the lingering pain of the impact, Lacan brought his weapon back round and propped the barrel on his left forearm. The chopper pulled to a stop again, turning on its axis and bringing the two women within the field of the right gunner's fire. Lacan roared as he squeezed the trigger, continuous fire ricocheting off the walls of the troop bay. It was enough. Prioritising the source of danger, the gunner swung the cannon on its mount towards Lacan and opened fire.

Crouched beside Dieter Bloch, Bowman saw his opening. The chopper's pilot, apparently obsessed with wiping out the second team before they made it across to his position, had stopped longer than it should have without adequate protection on its left flank. He tucked his sniper rifle into his shoulder and rested his cheek on the stock; peering through the scope, he lined up the cross hairs on the left rotor assembly and steadied the rifle. A squeeze of the trigger blasted a chunk out of the assembly, and the wounded engine belched out smoke and fire. A quick shift in aim and the underlying jet detonated, pitching the chopper violently.

Sarah Townsend had braced herself as the chopper began to turn, knowing that the chances of getting her shot off before the deadly hail of bullets from the cannon found her were slim, but she had to try regardless. As sparks flashed off metal all around the troop bay, she watched in surprise as the gun suddenly turned, tracking a different target. This was her chance. The batarian gunner's head came into vision on her sniper scope, and she place the crosshairs between his eyes. She pulled the trigger, milliseconds before the engines on the other side of the aircraft exploded, drilling a hole through the batarian's brain just before the chopper bucked wildly.

"Tango down." She yelled into her mic joyously. She looked at Perez and smiled reassuringly as the chopper careened off above her. Somehow, they had made it through the most terrifying minute of the young communication officer's life.

Gral'Avah blinked back tears as acrid smoke stung his four eyes, a roar of volatile rage cascading over his thin lips. The gunners were both dead, shot by snipers, and the pilot was wrestling the control stick to keep the chopper in the air. He had made a foolish, negligent error in judgement. Despite his caution, he had still managed to underestimate his opposition. The wailing of the alarm served only to mock him, it seemed, as the gunship drifted in a lazy spiral away from the massed humans and towards the jungle.

"Mass effect core is strained to breaking; we don't have enough lift to keep us up." The pilot howled. "I'll do what I can to make this gentle."

"Forgive me if I don't put much confidence in that promise." Gral'Avah said sourly as he braced himself. _Why did I let that psychopath force me into this death trap?_ The irony was not lost on the _Haikr_ as the second craft that day plummeted into the unforgiving embrace of the equatorial jungle, though it didn't little to soften the fear and anger that pulsed through him with every heartbeat. Even as the first branches scraped the underside of the ruined aircraft, Gral'Avah was resolute. _Never again_ he vowed, _next time there will be no mistakes. Next time I claim victory, and make those that stood in my way regret ever being born!_

The ground shuddered as the chopper lost its futile battle with gravity and plunged into the trees, a rising plume of smoke the only indicator of its position. The batarians in front of Anderson had set up a bizarre staggered retreat, an awkward leapfrogging manoeuvre that took them through a long arc around the human's flank, a small rocky outcrop providing them with barely sufficient cover. They were trying to fall back to the chopper's crash site, the commander realised. Takama's barrier overload had bought them just enough time to take down the chopper, much to Anderson's relief.

"Push forward!" He called out, "Now's our chance, we make a run for it. Lacan, set up a rearguard." There was no response across the radio. "Lacan?" A bolt of fear coursed through the commander's body. When a reply came through, it was the voice of Sarah Townsend.

"We've got a problem, sir."

"Shit." Anderson breathed. He directed Bowman and Takama to get the crew moving towards the port, while Kirilenko continued to lay down cover fire on the retreating batarians. The commander ran back, spotting Townsend and Perez crouched over the still form of Lacan. As he got closer, Anderson saw it was hopeless. The Corporal's chest armour was pierced in several places, blood oozing out and pooling beneath him. He knelt and attempted to check for a pulse, before swiftly giving up. Even if he had been able to get underneath the armour, the signs were obvious. His chest was eerily still, the blood from his wounds trickling out in the absence of a heartbeat to pump it properly, and his eyes, once so alive with passion were cold and empty. Vincent Lacan was dead.

Slamming a fist into the ground, Anderson stood and helped a visibly shaken Monica Perez to her feet.

"He came back for me... It's my fault he's-" The commander silenced her with a look and grabbed her wrist, pulling her into a run while Townsend dropped into a vanguard position, her sniper rifle tracking through the rear arc.

Under the diminishing fire of the retreating batarians, the crew ran. Legs made tireless by adrenaline and fear carried them across the pitted ground, the failing sun turning the swishing grass as red as the blood that now stained it. They passed by the first building, gasping for breath, but still Anderson lead them on. Sarah Townsend halted, using the corner of a wall as cover while she looked for pursuit. A pair of batarians saw her and opened fire as they ran. A neatly placed round dropped one of them, and the other slunk to the floor.

Confident there was no more immediate danger, Townsend hurried after the rest of the crew. They had made it. Despite all the odds, they had made it to the town. They had cover, supplies and most importantly communications. For the first time since the _El Alamein_ had crashed, Townsend felt safe.

It was as they hit the first, quiet backstreet that Serviceman Second Class Maria Pietersen collapsed. Maruf Ebadi sped over to her, ready to pick her back up. He recoiled as her right hand collapsed to her side, revealing the ugly bullet wound that had pierced her stomach.

"Son of a bitch!" Ebadi yelped, as Pietersen whimpered on the floor. "Carter, get over here!" He called.

"Commander," Pietersen croaked as Anderson joined the gathering, "I'm sorry... I didn't get down fast enough..."

"You ran all this way with that?" Anderson asked her, shocked, while the two medic did what they could to stem the bloodflow. Pietersen merely nodded, a weak smile briefly lighting up her sallow face, before her eyes closed. "Ebadi!" Anderson shouted.

"Yeah, I see it." The private replied, his voice strained, "she's lost consciousness. Come on Maria, stay with me." He said uselessly.

"No exit wound," Jonathon Carter announced, "the round's still in there somewhere. Applying just enough medigel to keep her stable. We need to get her inside, now." This last sentence was directed to Anderson, who nodded once.

"Kirilenko! Take point, find us somewhere to hole up."

The _bartathah_ growled to himself as his foot turned over the body of another dead batarian. His ambush had failed, as he had warned the _Haikr_ it would. The open terrain had worked both ways, the shallow pits his men had hastily dug had been useless once the firefight had broken out. The wide area in which the humans had to emerge from the jungle had also proven an issue, his men had been spread too thin trying to cover sufficient ground, and had been unable to concentrate fire adequately.

His superior had also been too hasty with the gunship, too eager to gun down humans when his mind should have been solely on the capture of the diplomat. Had he allowed the ground team to draw all the humans together, it would have been simple to pin them between his men holding position in their small trenches, and the gunship at their rear. If he had left what killing was required to the more precise gunners, rather than coming in all guns blazing and doing nothing but scatter them, the plan would have worked.

_Gral'Avah is just as incompetent as the _Drelha_ suspected_, he thought bitterly. But no, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't incompetence the _Drelha_ had intimated, more a lack of trust in the _Haikr_'s attitude. He had been right. Perrin Gral'Avah was too hotheaded, too concerned with wreaking his own personal form of revenge on the humans. The greenskin could understand, sympathise even, with his superior's rage. He too had known loss, and he suspected his could not come close to rivalling the hurt that Gral'Avah must surely feel, but that was no excuse. Letting his passion inflame him so was simply not productive.

Revenge had to be cold, calculated and efficient if it was to succeed. Anger served only as a motivator, it had no place in combat and even less use when it came to formulating tactics. And the price to be paid for Gral'Avah's impetuousness was in the blood of the men under his command. _They deserved better than this_. Worse, the strength with which he could bring retaliation had been decimated. Too many casualties for far too little gain.

They had found one human body. Only one. That left him with an attrition rate of eight to one, and that did not even take into account the loss of the gunship, or the entire team that had died in the human frigate. The _bartathah_ was unsure how much more of this he could endure. He dialled a communications frequency into his radio set.

"Bar'Vakh, it's me." The voice that answered was thick, and slightly slurring. It reverberated from thick jowls.

"Make it quick, this channel isn't secure."

"There's nothing to worry about, our illustrious leader is currently unconscious," he said disdainfully, "the humans managed to bring the chopper down." On the other end, Bar'Vakh clicked his oversized cheeks.

"A shame he wasn't killed. At least then the _Drelha_ might be forced to take direct control of this operation."

"My thoughts exactly." The greenskin said slowly. "That's why I'm contacting you, despite the risks. I want you to relay this to the _Drelha_ he needs to know that Gral'Avah has failed again, and that we have lost a chopper and eight more men in addition to letting the humans slip by us. The _Drelha_ needs to know where the blame lies."

"I see." Bar'Vakh chuckled, his deep voice and wide mouth making it a jovial sound. "You really are determined this plan succeed, aren't you?"

"The _Drelha_ is doing the right thing for the batarian people," confidence radiated through the greenskin's strong baritone, "I won't stand for dullards like Gral'Avah damaging his plan."

"It's reassuring to hear that," Bar'Vakh replied, his broad smile almost audible, "I'll send your message."

The _bartathah___smiled to himself as he strode back towards the crash site. The humans may have escaped him, but now they had nowhere to run. The meeting was still just over a week away. He had time, finally, on his side. He would encircle his enemy the way a predator encircled its prey. He would squeeze them with all the force he could muster, and they would crumble. And soon, he would be free of the idiotic _Haikr_'s bumbling dictation. This day may have ended badly, but tomorrow was just around the corner, and tomorrow was his day.

Though only a small colony, even by human standards, Morpai's port town had grown large enough to warrant areas separate and large enough to be classified districts, and like so many towns before it, one of these districts was visibly poorer than the others. It was in this maze of shabby houses and shady market streets that the surviving crew of the _El Alamein_ came across an abandoned apartment block, a sign plastered to its door that said, in three batarian dialects, a curving asari script and English, 'entry is forbidden'. Ignoring the order, Corporal Kirilenko had barged his way through, and had proceeded to clear the building.

It was indeed deserted, and Anderson had ordered them to set up camp on the top floor, giving snipers Bowman and Townsend the best possible field of fire. While Ebadi and Carter continued to work on getting Maria Pietersen back on her feet, Anderson and Perez were working on getting a message out to the Alliance.

"There's a whole series of extranet nodes," Perez sighed, brushing her hair back roughly, strain showing on her face, "but all these terminals are wrecked. We could hook up a portable, but I'm not even sure if the nodes are still on the grids."

"Until a better solution presents itself, I think our only option is to give it a go." Anderson replied stoically. Perez shrugged, but proceeded to ferret through one of the equipment packs in search of a portable terminal. Though standard issue for just about every serviceman in the Alliance, the omni-tool that had revolutionised interface technology on its introduction was not without its limitations; foremost of these was its dependence on wireless signals. Though possible to set up a hardline interface with the right accessories, the additional baggage often negated the portability that was so integral to the palm sized tool's design. As such, the Alliance also made use of bulkier datapads that retained the haptic interface of the omni-tool, but presented in a sturdier, larger package that was deemed both more rugged and more adaptable to the demands of field activity.

Drawing a fibre optic cable from a recessed cavity on the rear of the datapad, Perez hooked it up to the extranet node on the discoloured wall of the apartment they were squatting in.

"Here goes nothing." She remarked, a hopeful smile directed at Anderson.

Maruf Ebadi shivered as he walked out of the apartment's disused bathroom, flicking cold water off his hands. Given the state of the place, he been amazed it still had running water, and even more amazed that it appeared to be clean. He examined his hands once more, convinced they were still unclean despite the lack of visual evidence. Though trained as a medic, he had never held any particular desire to become a doctor, and he still had to suppress an urge to cringe at the sight of blood, despite the nature of many of the wounds he had been made to treat during his career.

Maria Pietersen had been stabilised, and looked set to recover, but it cost them a larger quantity of medigel than Ebadi had hoped, leaving him concerned over their remaining supplies – another determined attack by their batarian pursuers before rescue arrived and they would be in a delicate position. As he did his best to dry his hands on his hardsuit, Ebadi acknowledged that once again he had directly saved a life. Well, with some help from Serviceman Carter. _The kid's good_, Ebadi thought, _certainly knows more than I do; he'll make a good doctor – if he makes it through this_. Certainly Carter's bedside manner was better than his, Ebadi chuckled at the thought. He had felt no qualms about leaving the now unconscious Pietersen in Carter's care.

With his task as a medic concluded, for now at least, soldier mode had kicked back in, and Ebadi had taken upon himself to sweep the building for potential ingress points, escape routes, weaknesses and sniper nests. With his assault rifle compacted and slotted onto his back, he was comfortable walking around the deserted building with one hand resting on the hilt of his sidearm. Descending a set of crumbling stairs, Ebadi kicked at a chunk of loose concrete, sending debris scuttling down the stairs before him. The majority of the survivors had chosen to set up camp on the top floor in the hope that a few sentries posted at windows would have the best possible view of any approaching hostiles, but the design of the building left blind spots on any one particular floor, and Ebadi knew that Sato Takama had been dispatched to find a window on a lower floor that overlooked an angle otherwise unavailable to watchers on the top floor.

With little else to occupy him, Ebadi resolved to find him and see if he needed help with anything. Ambling slowly among the empty rooms, Ebadi took the opportunity to investigate the few objects that had been left scattered by the previous occupants. A limescale covered kettle in one kitchen, a set of rusted knives in another. One room was home only to a family of ten-legged insects that resembled spiders, and a faded couch with an ugly gash down its centre. _Probably a knife, knowing batarians_, Ebadi thought disdainfully.

Moving on, he followed the faint sound of clattering emanating from a room across the hall. Though in the span of less than a day, he had been shot down, shot _at_, ran through jungle and plain in rain and heat and had only minutes ago sown up the spleen of another human with little more than a syringe of gel – there was still nothing that could have prepared him for the sight within.

Stooped over a bent desk, Sato Takama was shakily pouring some brown liquid from a dusty bottle into a cracked beaker, an open cupboard behind him having seemingly exploded its contents over the floor. Before Ebadi could find any words to express his shock, Takama had necked the entire contents of the beaker, following it with a pronounced wince and tensing shoulders.

"Sato," Ebadi gaped, "what the hell are you doing?"

Takama did not jump, he merely turned slowly to acknowledge the marine stood in the doorway.

"Look what I found," he grinned, "someone's private stash. Figured it could use a better home than this dump. I was the only around, so I thought 'why not?'"

"Are you drunk?" Ebadi asked, stunned.

"No, no, no," Takama insisted, waving his hands in dismissal, "I've only had half of this... brown stuff. Oh, and a small bottle of this clear stuff that tasted like lemons. Don't think it was that strong though. Don't worry." He slurred somewhat. "I'm fine. Only wanted to take the edge off, you know? Been a long day. Lot of stress. Commander doesn't need me stressed, you know? Gotta be sharp."

"And this is helping you focus?" Ebadi queried, incredulous. He stepped forward into the room.

"Okay, okay," Takama stuttered, "I have a small, tiny, tiny secret." He beckoned Ebadi over to him, exaggerating the gesture as Ebadi hesitated. "I used to be an alcoholic." He said in a false, loud whisper. Ebadi's eyes widened, and his jaw went slack.

"What the hell, Sato?" Ebadi did all he could not to shout. "What in God's name made you think this would be a good idea."

"I'm... I'm sorry, Maruf." Sato replied, the stupid grin gone from his face. "I didn't think that-"

"Exactly," Ebadi fumed, "you didn't think. Christ, what if the Commander sees you? And the hell do you mean you used to be an alcoholic?"

"That's why I enlisted," Sato shrugged, "drink hit me big time as a teen. I was bleeding money, getting into trouble. I couldn't stop myself, and I couldn't cope with... treatment." He said bitterly. "I did some really stupid stuff, facing jail time if I broke one more warning, you know? So I signed up for the Marines. Went cold turkey – figured the discipline would do me good, that they could drive it out of me. And hey, I'd get to see space too." He tried a smile again. "Well it worked. Didn't touch a drop after."

"But I've seen you on shore leave," Ebadi replied, confused, "you put more away than anyone else. You get completely wasted. Christ, you're famous for it!"

"Yeah I know," Sato looked regretful, "but the training, that discipline stopped me doing stupid stuff, and in the morning I'd pop some headache pills and go right back to soldiering. No relapses, no worries." The smile was back once more.

"Until now," Ebadi seethed, "we've got to get you cleaned up before someone _important_ comes looking for you." Takama's face drained of colour, and lines of worry drew themselves across his face.

"Yeah, yeah, maybe you're right." He said fearfully. "They'd kick me out, wouldn't they? You can't let that happen, Maruf. I... I need the corps. And that's not just some macho crap, it's... it's actually true." Ebadi's anger faltered at the admission.

"Look, it's not that bad," he conceded, "I know how much you can put away, and you're nowhere near that yet. You can still stand, your eyes aren't bloodshot. Look, I'm going to get you some coffee and do what I can to keep everyone off your back. I might even be able to sneak you some pills to take care of the tremble in your hands. But there's something you have to do first, and I'm going to have to watch you." Takama nodded in understanding. Slowly, he gathered up the bottles strewn haphazardly across the floor and took them to the kitchen unit, pouring them one by one down the drain.

"Good man," Ebadi said encouragingly, "now you get yourself looking out that window while I get some stuff to sort you out." Takama nodded appreciatively, before once again letting his face fall fearful.

"Maruf, you... you won't tell anyone?" Ebadi sighed coarsely and scratched the back of his head awkwardly before replying.

"No, I won't. But you owe me one." He said pointedly before making his way back upstairs.

He was greeted back in the large apartment by Commander Anderson.

"Ebadi," Anderson nodded tiredly, "how's Takama?" Ebadi managed to avoid freezing up, much to his relief.

"Bored," he put his best reassuring grin on, "I'm just going to get him some coffee." Anderson smiled.

"You know there's all too few men that can get bored behind enemy lines, the kid's got guts, I'll say that." Ebadi winced inwardly – one couldn't really count Dutch Courage as true bravado. "Nice to see you keeping morale, I'd have thought saving Pietersen's life was enough for one day." The commander said drily.

"Just keeping busy," Ebadi shrugged, "how's the transmitter going?"

"Turns out the building's still on the grid – so we got lucky there. Finally." Anderson added. "Perez is trying to patch into the system and get a secure message to Alliance brass."

"Do you think it'll work?" Ebadi asked worriedly.

"Now that we're on the 'net, we'll get a message out," Anderson said confidently, "whether it's actually secure or not is a whole different question." His face looked drawn, the lack of sleep beginning to show, compounded all the more by the stress that was continually being heaped on the new commander.

"Hell of a first mission, boss." Ebadi said sympathetically.

It had been a restless three days for the survivors. Monica Perez had finally managed to make contact with the Alliance in the early hours of the day after their arrival in the abandoned building. In turn, the Systems Alliance had wasted no time in dispatching a frigate – an unusually speedy response even for the reactionary mantra of the Alliance Navy. The presence of Ambassador Bloch was no doubt adding a greater sense of urgency than any group of marines could ever provide.

But despite the wonders of faster than light travel and the unfathomable instantaneous travel of the mass relays, the galaxy was still of vast scale, and even the nearest patrol frigate was in actuality an incredible distance away. But they had just received that their rescue had passed through the relay into the Benevas Kai cluster and was now only hours away.

The marines had slept fitfully, resting for a few brief hours in between watching the streets surrounding the apartment block, their sacrifice allowing the fearful crew to rest and recover from the shock of the crash and their desperate flight from relentless pursuers. Some of the scars, both physical and mental, would be permanent. But there was a lingering sense of hope in the musty air of the apartment now. There had been no sign of the batarians at all since holing up, and many quietly believed they had given up, or simply couldn't find them.

Commander Anderson was debating escape strategies with the ever dependable Gordon Bowman, the career sergeant a calm and experienced voice in any discussion – a crutch Anderson was leaning more and more on. In their last transmission with the rescue frigate – the SSV _Aspern-Essling_ – Anderson and the ship's captain agreed they could not trust the port system, but the apartment was nearly a mile from the nearest flat ground with enough room for the frigate to land. That meant a retreat was in order, and the mile run was plenty long enough for an ambush to occur at any number of points along the route. Given the lack of any attempt at on assault on the apartment building, Anderson suspected the enemy commander had realised the human's ultimate need to relocate and was choosing to commit his reduced forces more wisely.

It was a shift in tactics from the brazen methods the batarians had shown thus far, and Anderson had even speculated that there may have been a change of leadership after the failed ambush on the grassy plain. Anderson found it surprising that such a change could have happened, the rigidity of batarian society had translated itself across into the standing military and most batarian centred mercenary groups. This group was something new, Anderson feared.

Anderson was growing frustrated, and he knew that deep underneath Bowman's collected and impassive outer shell, he was too. No matter what formation or rough strategy they attempted to draw up, the plan kept boiling down to the same thing: wait for the frigate to lend, run like hell and hope the marines could spot ambushers before they themselves were seen. That no better extraction method had arisen in three days was infuriating, but the survivors were trapped by circumstance. Anderson had little choice.

Even from the start, this plan was full of risk. A frigate entering atmosphere had to drop its kinetic barriers until it could step down to cruising speed; if the batarians were on the ball, and were indeed anticipating rescue, they could simply fire another one of their rockets and shoot it down the same way they had downed the _El Alamein_. All Anderson could do from his end was warn the _Aspern-Essling_'s captain and hope they could keep the GARDIAN batteries from being fooled in the way _El Alamein_'s had. Failing that, he could prey that the batarians were unable to react fast enough. Neither option provided huge comfort.

As the minutes ticked by and rolled into hours, Anderson could feel the tension mounting. His marines were keeping themselves in permanent readiness, weapons clutched rather than holstered, helmets in place and kinetic barriers charged. The crew were visibly scared, so close to rescue but with still so far to go, they all seemed to sense that the batarians were not about to simply let them go. To his credit, Dieter Bloch had been doing what he could to keep spirits high, but Anderson suspected his lingering cheeriness was borne from false confidence in the diplomatic immunity he felt sure the batarians would honour. Anderson had seen enough of life out here to not that was highly unlikely.

His flawed, incomplete plan in as finished state as he and Bowman could get it, Anderson briefed the marines one fireteam at a time, allowing the other to keep watch. Anderson donned his helmet and checked the time on the Heads-Up Display. Less than two hours by the rescue pilot's estimation. The man had sounded confident in his assessment, Anderson had noted, almost to the point of cockiness. But Anderson knew when to trust self-assuredness, and he had felt now was one of those times. A lot of pilot's were arrogant, it seemed to go with the territory, and Anderson's initial assessment of the voice heard via crackling speaker from light years away regarded this one as no different from the trend, but there was something reassuring about it all the same.

Anderson sat down, doing what he could to enjoy the calm before the storm, but the quiet was beyond relaxing, into the realms of eerie. No matter what he had got his people through thus far, the commander sensed his greatest test was yet to come.

"Commander!" Arkady Kirilenko bellowed over the helmet radio, jarring Anderson from his thoughts. "We have contacts to the east! And they've brought heavy weapons!"

The last syllable was drowned out by an almighty crash as the building trembled. The wall cracked, sending debris flying inward as a second explosion rocked the building. _Not now!_ Anderson thought desperately as he scrambled for his assault rifle amid an outbreak of chattering gunfire. _We were so close_.


	6. Chapter Five

**A/N: This chapter's a little shorter than the rest, but I wanted to get something up to keep the story rolling, and this one's important. I thought about extending it to a similar length to the other chapters, but the point I've left it at was too perfect not to have it close off the chapter. I've been through once or twice to hammer out typos and punctuation errors, but there may still be a few lingering. If you come across one, I apologise for not being thorough enough.**

**Chapter Five**

"Kirilenko!" Anderson barked, "Get down here and secure the east window." The commander peered out over the lip of the window nearest him, straining for a glimpse at the attackers, hoping for some indication of the strength of the opposing force. "Bowman, take Kirilenko's position on the top floor and start putting that marksman training to use!" He shouted as another impact sent ripples through the brickwork, shaking loose a cascade of dust through the room.

Bowman nodded, springing up from his crouched position with sidearm drawn and sprinting for the door to the stairwell. To Anderson's left, Murray and Townsend were unleashing a hail of suppressing fire from either side of the twisted remains of a large window frame, kinetic barriers lighting sporadically as their attackers scored scant lucky hits.

Between shots, Anderson could just make out the thuds of Kirilenko's bulk charging down the stairs. He barged into the room from a door on its south side, behind Townsend and Murray. Nodding once at the Commander, wild eyed, he darted right to take up a position at the bay window on the room's east side, flattening himself against the wall just as the crump of an explosion several floors below reverberated up the building.

"How many of them, Corporal?" Anderson strained to make himself heard above the noise.

"Not sure, sir," Kirilenko bellowed back, "I counted six tangos with rifles, and at least two other foot mobiles with RPGs. Got a glimpse of some movement behind them, but couldn't tell if it was hostile."

"Tango down!" Murray interjected, his thick Scottish burr intimidating at this volume.

"Bowman, can you confirm?" Anderson asked through his radio.

"Aye, sir. I count ten plus foot mobiles. One less thanks to Murray. Permission to go loud on the heavies."

"Granted, Sergeant. Smoke 'em." Anderson ordered.

"Hurry up, Bowman!" Edabi's voice joined in on the radio chatter. "They're pounding the lower floors with explosives, trying to cause a collapse maybe. It's getting pretty hot down here."

"Understood, Ebadi. Hold them off as best you can, but be ready to move. Takama, get up here and get the non-coms ready to bug out as soon as this place becomes untenable." Anderson shouted between bursts from his assault rifle. "Where the hell is that frigate?" He asked himself under his breath.

"Incoming!" Bowman yelled across the radio. "Get down!" The building shook as a rocket exploded a floor down. Kirilenko stumbled, his shields lighting up as the batarians on the street below took advantage of the momentary lapse in suppressing fire. He pulled back, jinking right and pinning himself against the wall in search of cover. Less than a second after the first impact, a second rocket smashed into the wall outside, the resulting blast hurling Kirilenko across the room, along with a considerable chunk of the wall. He bounced once as his limp body hit the floor, skidding to a halt in the middle of the room. He lay immobile.

Townsend raced from her position and knelt beside the prone figure, rolling him over to look at his face.

"Medic!" She yelled into her radio upon seeing the wounds beneath Kirilenko's shattered faceplate. "Medic! Now!" Frantically, she searched for a pulse, cursing the impeding armour. Kirilenko let out a quiet cough, unleashing a cascade of blood. His nose was bent out of shape, and from it poured a river of blood that began to mingle with that from his mouth. His left eye was forced shut by an ugly gash, and a fracture in the surrounding skull; his right eye was open only by a sliver, its barely visible pupil slowly coming to rest on Townsend. Kirilenko drew in a rattling breath and mumbled something incoherent, before it slowly escaped his lips. Arkady Kirilenko went still.

"MEDIC!" Townsend screamed again, just as Maruf Ebadi burst through the door, panic visible on his face as he rushed over to the fallen marine. Pushing Townsend away gently, he knelt and slid a finger under the armour's neck joint. Mournfully, he shook his head after only the briefest of moments.

"Son of a bitch!" Anderson muttered, loosing another burst of rifle fire on the streets below. "Alright, I'm calling it. We're falling back to Position Bravo. Bowman, get down here and-" He was cut off by a burst of static from the radio Perez had hooked up to the extranet terminal.

"-Alamein, this is the SSV _Aspern-Essling_, we have entered low orbit and are ready for extraction. Confirm your position. Over." Anderson scrambled over to the comm unit. "_El Alamein_, this is the SSV _Aspern-Essling_, do you copy? Over." The voice on the other end had become anxious.

"Copy, _Aspern-Essling_, this is the _El Alamein_, XO speaking."

"Good to hear your voice, Commander. Does your position match the co-ordinates you sent us in your last transmission?"

"Affirmative, but we are under attack and taking heavy fire. Position is untenable, we are falling back to the EZ."

"Understood. Get your people moving, we're moving to engage fire support mission."

"Roger that, we're Oscar Mike." Anderson set the radio down. "Alright people, let's move. Bowman, Murray: cover the retreat. Keep suppressing fire on them until I give you the signal we're in position for covering fire."

"Aye, sir." At a gesture from Anderson, Sato Takama began running down the stairwell, keeping the command crew close behind him. Flanking either side of the unarmoured personnel were Ebadi and Townsend, their rifles raised in anticipation. Anderson maintained guard at the rear, along with the few officers who had been afforded the spare hardsuits.

"Everyone, check your shields!" Anderson called out as the group hurtled down the stairs, continually braced against the detonations that continued to rock the building. The Commander followed his own order by glancing at the appropriate readout on his HUD, relieved to see they had been able to recharge to full strength after the hits he had taken during the initial exchange of fire.

Though his position at the rear of the formation precluded from seeing the faces of his crew in any detail, the few glimpses he caught from turned heads showed uniform fear. Though he had done his best to factor an eventual counterattack into his plans, Anderson knew deep down that there was nothing he could have done to prepare the people now under his command for an engagement of this scale. He had brought them through the death trap of the jungle and the killing fields that bordered the port town only by the skin of his teeth. That he had not lost more to the viciousness of the batarians pursuing him was nigh on miraculous, but the death of the two marines under his direct command weighed heavily on him. Given the danger they were about to stumble into, he realised the odds of getting the rest of the crew out alive were slim indeed, even with their rescue frigate so close.

"Takama!" He shouted as the private reached the fire escape at the bottom of the stairwell. "Keep them moving!"

Takama nodded, hurling his bulk against the door. It gave readily, and the surviving crew of the _El Alamein_ spilled out into the morning sunshine. The sounds of gunfire were instantly magnified, the scale of the attack suddenly that much more daunting. Down the street, two batarians were crouched behind a low wall, unleashing a barrage of rifle fire on the abandoned building, apparently oblivious to the escaping humans. Takama had taken aim before either had the chance to react, opening fire just as the leftmost batarian finally caught sight of movement in the corners of his four eyes. By that time, of course, it was far too late. Takama had dropped them both before the thought of calling for help had even begun to formulate in either of their minds.

Unfortunately, the batarians had been prepared for such an eventuality. They had encircled the building in such a way that no street was left unguarded, and every attacker was in sight range of another. The shift in the source of gunfire was audible enough to attract the attention of another batarian fireteam, who immediately shifted position to allow them to target the fleeing humans.

"Another contact!" Ebadi shouted. "They've seen us. Damn it, no way they haven't let the others know."

"Take them out, keep moving. We're running out of time!" Anderson shouted in reply. Beside him, ship's navigator Morgan Jones let out a soft whimper, his face pale beneath the protective faceplate of his borrowed hardsuit. Anderson clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Come on Jones, we're getting out of here." The Lieutenant replied with a curt, wide eyed nod, his lips pressed tightly together in fear.

The survivors kept running, maintaining at best a fast jog. Townsend opened fire on the batarians, though her movement threw her aim, and she managed only a few scant hits on the kinetic barriers of her aggressor before her own began to light up.

"Ebadi, drop and cover!" Anderson barked. Ebadi obliged by dropping into a momentary crouch and firing in a broad pattern around the two batarians, forcing them back into cover. This gave Takama the time he needed to close and engage them from a stable position. The rightmost batarian stood again, firing his rifle into the crowd of humans. A sharp return burst from Takama collapsed his barrier, and shot cleanly through his skull, dropping him almost instantly. Unfortunately, the burst had come just after the batarian's fire had struck the shoulder of Weapons Officer Craig Donavon, who grunted in shock and stumbled, his injured arm flailing limply. Still running, Jonathan Carter picked him up mid stumble and set him back on balance, shouting encouragement through the haze of pain.

Frantically, the remaining batarian began a retreat; backpedalling and firing wildly from the hip in an attempt at suppression. His retreat took him straight into the sights of a recovered Sarah Townsend, who wasted no time in re-engaging. This time, from a stable crouch, she did not miss. The batarian fell, and Sato Takama kept the crew running through the street.

"Townsend, you're with me." Anderson ordered as he took up the fallen batarians' position, shifting his aim back towards the building they had just escaped from. "They're coming round the building; Bowman, Murray, get your asses moving down here! On the Goddamn double!"

"Acknowledged." Was Bowman's strained reply. Anderson lined up his weapon sights with the readout in his HUD, and trained them both on the form of a heavily armed batarian rounding the apartment through a back alley, and onto the street the humans were using as an escape route. He opened fire, covering the batarian in a sheen of shimmering blue as the rounds impacted on his kinetic barrier. The batarian dove to the ground, waiting for his partner to return fire on the human position. The return fire never came. The hapless batarian whirled round to see Gregor Murray clutching a combat knife that was still dripping blood. The batarian's teammate lay at the marine's feet, motionless and gushing blood. Before the downed batarian could react, the muzzle of Murray's sidearm was through the perimeter of his kinetic barrier and pointed at his chest. Murray squeezed the trigger without hesitation.

Sheathing both knife and pistol, Murray began sprinting towards Anderson, with Bowman right behind him, rifle in hand.

"Keep moving!" Anderson roared at them in the space of a brief lull in gunfire. The batarians continued to round the apartment, their numbers ever greater. With the aid of covering fire from Anderson and Townsend, the two man vanguard made it through. Barely.

"We're pinned sir," Bowman reported as he hurled himself over the low wall Anderson and Townsend were crouched behind, "we try and fall back, and they gun us down." He gestured towards the advancing batarians. Those armed with rifles had halted, seeking cover while they hurled all the suppressing fire they could muster on the marines. They were waiting for the heavies armed with rockets to simply blast the humans out of their way. Anderson shook his head at Bowman.

"We've got to move before those heavies show up. On my mark, we run. We sprint and we don't look back. All we can do is hope our barriers buy us enough time to get round the corner."

"Tall order, sir." Townsend shouted back over the noise.

"No choice, Corporal. Ready? Three. Two. One-"

Anderson's last word was drowned out by an almighty shriek from above. Human and batarian alike looked up to see the sky above filled with the shape of a Systems Alliance frigate roaring through the atmosphere. A single shot from the underslung mass accelerator was enough to level the ruined apartment, tearing through supporting columns and sending rubble cascading down as the structure collapsed under its own weight. Dust billowed outwards in the wake of a crippling sonic boom.

Half choked, deafened and hoarse from shouting, Anderson had to physically haul his fellow marines up into the dust and set them running after the rest of the _El Alamein_ crew.

"This is SSV _Aspern-Essling_," a voice crackled into Anderson's headset just audible above the ringing, "proceeding to pick up point." The frigate wheeled round above them, firing two successive shots from the ground support cannon into the streets, scattering the batarians. With a thunderous roar from its engines, the _Aspern-Essling_ shot past, spinning about once again as it reached the edge of the port town, and began to descend to the ground in a display of extraordinary piloting precision.

"Move!" Anderson rasped. He rounded the street corner that took them onto the outbound road. The landed frigate was visible just beyond the block of buildings lining the road. The marines sprinted towards it, covered by Takama and Ebadi, who were peering round the corners of the buildings that marked the end of the settlement. Anderson heard an eruption of gunfire behind him, but he kept running, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Lungs ablaze and legs numb with exertion, he finally hurtled past the perimeter, throwing himself around the corner into cover. Turning his head, he saw the frigate perched on landing struts, no more than two hundred metres across them, over a grassy plain much like the one they had been forced to cross to enter the town. He could see the ramp into the cargo deck was lowered, flanked by four distant, crouched figures. The batarians were continuing to press down the road, and their heavy troops had finally caught up.

The wall behind Anderson trembled as a rocket struck it. At the edge of the building, Takama continued his barrage of fire, but to little avail. There were simply too many attackers to contend with.

"One last push!" Anderson gasped at the huddled crew. "We can make it, we're so close. Just... one... last... PUSH!" He stood, hefting his assault rifle in exhausted arms. He was interrupted once more by the roar of a vehicle, but this time it was the throaty chug of a combustion engine, growing louder as its source closed the gap between them. Snapping his head left, he caught sight of an ungainly looking vehicle bouncing across the plains towards them, a cradle of metal suspended on four fat tyres. And on that cradle squatted an ugly looking turret, a large calibre machine gun perched at its apex.

For one brief moment, Anderson's face fell into the same mask of terror that clutched those of the bridge crew. "Shit." He breathed, momentarily frozen, his brain simply unable to process the new danger. Fighting through the haze, he found focus at last.

"Ebadi, Takama," he shouted against the pain in his throat, "get Ambassador Bloch and get running for the frigate. Now! Everyone else, stay in your formation and make a run for it. Keep someone in a hardsuit between you and the enemy as best you can. Murray, you're with me. We need to hold these bastards off."

"Aye, sir." Murray nodded, his face set in a grim determination; cold in acceptance. The two marines turned back to the road on which the batarians kept advancing, while behind them, Gordon Bowman attempted to line up a shot with the incoming ATV.

"Commander?" A small voice beside Anderson spoke up just as he steadied his rifle. He spun to face the source.

"Monica?" He spluttered in surprise. The lieutenant was crouched beside him, frozen in terror. "What the hell are you doing? You need to get moving! NOW!"

"I can't!" She cried, tears welling in her eyes. "I can't, I can't. I'll die!" Anderson gripped her by the shoulders, staring straight through the blurry tears into her eyes.

"Listen to me, you can do this. You're going to make it. I promised I'd get you off this rock, and I don't break a promise lightly. OK? Bowman! Get her to the frigate!"

"But, sir," Bowman turned, "that vehicle-"

"No time. Go!"

"Commander, they're closing!" Murray wheeled back round the corner, his assault rifle bleeping an alert while smoke curled from the barrel. "Overheated!" he shouted. Anderson took up his position, squinting against the glare of a multitude of muzzle flashes and the flaring of his kinetic barrier. He pulsed the trigger of his rifle. Ducking back into cover, he cast a glance towards the fleeing crew just in time to see a round strike Maruf Ebadi between the shoulder blades. There was no flaring of shield. The marine crashed to the ground.

Beside him, Donavan was hobbling as fast as he could, supported as he was by Carter – the only thing keeping the Weapons Officer conscious. With the first non-combatant in the reach of the _Aspern-Essling_'s own marine complement, Sato Takama ran back to Ebadi's prone form.

"Maruf! Are you OK? Come on buddy talk to me!" He rolled the prone form over, eliciting a piercing shriek from the fallen marine. "You're alive then?" Sato marvelled.

"No thanks to you!" Ebadi screamed. "You don't... have time for this... get going... or we're both dead!"

"No chance," Takama replied, "I'm not leaving you, not after what you did for me."

"Can't... stand," Ebadi stammered through the pain. "Took one... in the leg."

"Then I guess I'm carrying you!" Takama answered stubbornly, ignoring the urge to glance down at the wound. Deaf to the cries of protest, Takama heaved his comrade bodily over a shoulder, resuming his dash towards the frigate. As he ran, he caught sight of Morgan Jones wrapping himself around Operations Chief Shauna Roberts, his kinetic barriers lighting up as rounds struck them, forming a human shield between the Chief and enemy fire. Half carrying, half dragging the engineer, Jones let out a panicked scream as he stumbled towards the frigate. Return fire from the marines was sufficient to drive back the batarians long enough for the two to reach the boarding ramp.

Taking all this in, Commander Anderson realised it was now or never.

"That's it, Gunny, we're out of here!" He shouted at Murray, breaking from cover and beginning the last sprint to the frigate. A violent chattering to his right caught his attention, as the machine gun mounted on the batarian vehicle opened up. He moaned in anguish as he realised the target. Monica Perez was still fifty metres from the frigate, and totally exposed. Bowman, running just behind her, saw the danger a fraction too late. With no other option, he lunged forward and shoved her roughly to the ground, visibly recoiling as rounds from the machine gun struck his shields.

Anderson ran at full pelt, twisting his body in a vain attempt to fire at the moving vehicle. With his rifle held only in his right hand, even its advanced recoil management systems were insufficient to stop tremors rattling down Anderson's arm. A single impact would have been a miracle.

The ATV bounced over a knoll, rapidly closing the distance, despite the hail of gunfire the _Aspern-Essling_'s marines were now directing at it. Gordon Bowman stumbled as rounds penetrated first his kinetic barriers, then his armour. His sniper rifle spilled from his hands as he pitched forward, rolling twice on the hard ground before coming to rest. Beside him, Monica Perez rolled onto her front, pushing herself up with her hands.

"Monica, no!" Anderson yelled as loudly as his aching throat would allow. "Stay down! Monica!"

His last cry was drowned out by the howl of gunfire, as tiny, hypervelocity rounds ripped through Perez' unarmoured form. Anderson screamed as he loosed another long burst of wildly inaccurate fire at the vehicle, swinging about in preparation to charge him down. Bowman, covered from head to toe in blood, rolled over once more, sidearm in hand. With an impossibly steady hand, he squeezed the trigger twice. The first round sparked off the metal framework that housed the vehicles engine. The second found its target, tearing through the exposed flesh of the gunner's neck. The gunfire abruptly halted, as the lifeless batarian tumbled from the mount and pitched grotesquely as he struck the ground. Gordon Bowman managed a tight smile, before he too slumped backwards.

"Bowman!" Anderson bellowed, now only metres away. The vehicle swerved away from the suppressing fire being laid down by the marines squatting beside the SSV _Aspern-Essling_, no longer a threat.

Commander Anderson threw himself at Bowman's prone figure, recognising instantly that his second in command was dead. His eyes stared blankly at the empty sky above, blood already coagulating on his dry lips. Just beyond him, Monica Perez lay gasping thinly for air. Bitterly, Anderson stepped over his friend's body, his hands reaching behind Perez' head.

"Monica, can you hear me?" He said as softly as the stubborn gunfire would allow. She merely nodded weakly.

"Good." Anderson breathed. "Listen, you're going to be fine. I'm getting you out of here, just like I promised, OK? We're right next to the frigate, they're going to fix you up. You've just got to stay with me long enough to get there. Understand?"

"No." She whimpered. "Can't... move."

"I know, I'm going to carry you. You're going to make it, just hang on."

"David..." She murmured as he delicately picked her up. "I'm... so glad... I met you."

"You're going to be even more glad when we're out of here." He choked, staggering towards the frigate.

"Let me take her, sir." One of the marines called as he ran the last few metres to Anderson. "Sir, you need to let me take her. Get yourself aboard." Reluctantly, Anderson relinquished the blood soaked woman to the marine, and stumbled up the ramp.

"Medic!" He shouted as he slumped to the floor of the cargo bay. "Medic!" A middle aged woman, crouched over the writhing form of Maruf Ebadi stood and hurried over to him, her eyes awash with concern.

"Where are you hit?" She asked kindly but firmly. "How bad?"

"Not me." Anderson wheezed, gesturing behind him at the marine bearing Monica Perez. "Her."

Gently, the marine lowered Perez to the floor, and the woman knelt beside her, immediately reaching for a pulse. She sighed, and hung her head mournfully. She turned to Anderson, simply shaking her head.

"No." He breathed, rolling over to Perez' limp body. "Come on Monica, stay strong. Wake up, we're home. We made it, just wake up." He muttered in vain.

"She's gone, Commander." The woman announced sadly, "I'm sorry. Now let me see to you." Anderson waved her off, struggling for words.

"I'm fine." He managed eventually, his voice cracked. "I don't need..." He trailed off as the woman withdrew a needle from a leg exposed by the removal of an armour segment, slipping into unconsciousness. Safe, and alive.

Anderson blinked his way back into consciousness, and gradually focused his eyes to pierce the hazy glare that enveloped him. The white blur that dominated his vision slowly resolved itself into detail. He was looking at a white tiled ceiling, a darker reinforcing bulkhead now occupying a small corner. Painfully, he tilted his eyes up, taking in the details of a headboard, electronic monitors and light fixtures.

"You're awake. Remarkably quickly I might add, we haven't even left the Vharin System yet." A woman's voice floated across to him from across what seemed a cavernously large room. "You really are determined."

"Who...?" Anderson managed to force through the sluggishness in his jaw.

"You're aboard the SSV _Aspern-Essling_." The voice said, crisper this time. Closer seeming. "The medical bay, to be exact. I'm the ship's doctor."

"My crew?" He coughed out.

"The ones that aren't too badly injured are taking a well deserved rest in the crew's mess. The others, well they actually respond to sedatives."

Anderson managed to turn his head, despite the aching stiffness in his neck. He saw the woman he remembered from the cargo bay standing over the unconscious figure of Maruf Ebadi, noting the readings on a display screen by his bed and checking the heavy bandaging that wrapped round both his right leg and upper torso.

"He'll live." The doctor stated, with an attempt at a reassuring smile. Despite her stern features, however, it worked. "Medigel will see to that. Should even be able to return to duty before too long."

Ignoring the aches that gripped his muscles, Anderson slowly hauled himself into a sitting position, teeth gritted.

"I need to speak to the captain." He announced to the doctor, in response to the stern expression that had crossed her face at his movement.

"What you need is to sleep off that sedative for the next three or four hours. With the amount I gave you, I'd be surprised if your legs made it to the door."

"It's important." Anderson urged.

"It always is," the doctor shook her head, smiling, "and I've heard it enough from soldiers to know that no argument I can make will ever persuade you that your own wellbeing is far important."

"I'm afraid I'll have to stick to the stereotype."

"Then I suppose I'll have to let you fulfil that endless sense of duty." The doctor sighed. "But for God's sake, let me give you a cup of coffee first."

Anderson smiled, and looked directly at the doctor's matronly expression. Her brow was set in a stern, commanding frown, but her eyes brimmed with genuine kindness. Anderson knew he could not turn down that particular request. Besides, the thought of a hot caffeine supply was too hard to resist.

By the time he was finished, Anderson was halfway to feeling human again. Some of the stiffness in his limbs had been purged by the caffeine, but most of the recovery he knew had to be attributed to taking a few minutes to rest. He had said little for the past few minutes, beyond a mumbled thanks at least; the doctor had returned her attention to Maruf Ebadi and Morgan Jones. The navigator's hardsuit had protected him from serious injury, but he had taken enough rounds during the escape to be covered in ugly bruises, and the doctor had seen fit to sedate him while the medigel did its job.

Finally, with the last of the coffee gone, Anderson stood gingerly to his feet. The doctor turned around, lines of worry creasing her cheeks.

"Given you haven't listened to anything else I've said," she chided, "I don't expect you'll listen to this. But please, take it easy. I don't want to see you dragged right back in here." Anderson nodded sincerely.

"I will. And thank you." He turned to go, but hesitated. "One more thing: I still don't believe you've told me your name."

The woman smiled.

"Ellen." She said warmly. "Ellen Chakwas."


End file.
